THE    MASK 

JOHN     COURNOS 


THE    MASK 


BY 

JOHN  COURNOS 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


I  •    I  •'• 


%\ 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED   STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 
ELENA  KONSTANTINOVNA  SOMOFP 


5001 02 


OVERTURE: 

A  PROMISE  AND  A  WARNING 

JOHN  GOMBAROV'S  supreme  frailty,  if  frailty  it  can  be 
called  in  a  world  as  frail  as  ours,  was  his  habit  of  dis 
coursing  upon  life — his  life.  This  weakness,  common 
enough  in  old  men  and  philosophers  to  be  overlooked 
by  a  none  too  tolerant  world,  might  indeed  have  been 
tedious  not  to  say  grotesque  in  any  other  young  man 
than  Gombarov,  upon  whom  the  habit  sat  like  a  gal 
lant  garment,  made  by  a  prince  of  tailors — so  much  so 
that  the  two  or  three  intimate  friends  to  whom,  from 
time  to  time,  he  unbosomed  himself,  far  from  frowning 
upon  him,  encouraged  him. 

Who,  if  not  this  same  Gombarov,  should  discourse 
upon  life?  Let  every  man  to  his  trade.  He  had  lived 
life,  had  steeped  himself  in  life,  and  the  blend  of  his 
woes  and  joys  produced  a  brew  ironic  and  piquant 
rather  an  insipid  or  bitter.  And  in  recounting  his  tragi 
comic  experiences,  he  spoke  quietly  and  evenly,  and  used 
neither  the  violent  gesture  of  the  tragic  actor  nor  the 
forced  guffaw  of  the  comedian;  you  felt  rather  the 
oracular  manner  of  a  man  who  accepted  everything 
and  was  astonished  at  nothing. 

}  "A  man's  life,"  observed  Gombarov  in  one  of  his  re 
flective  moods,  "is  on  the  surface  a  series  of  isolated 
pictures,  yet  in  some  mysterious  way  connected  or 
grouped  into  a  harmonious  if  not  always  a  perfect  pat 
tern.  And  this  invisible  continuous  design,  which  runs 
through  a  man's  life  like  a  motif  through  a  musical  cpm- 

vii 


viii  OVERTURE 

position,  is  called  character  by  some  men,  destiny  by 
others — which  after  all  depends  whether  you  regard  life 
as  the  sport  of  nature  or  the  puppet  play  of  the  gods." 

But  Gombarov  reached  this  conclusion  later,  much 
later,  than  the  events  about  to  be  recorded  here,  events 
— or  to  use  his  own  word,  pictures — in  which  he  had 
been  more  or  less  the  central  figure. 

"That  is  to  say,"  he  went  on  in  his  parabolic  way, 
in  keeping  with  his  Eastern  origin,  "that  circumstance, 
however  potent  in  influencing  men's  lives,  plays  in  the 
case  of  really  strong,  or,  if  you  will,  fated  characters 
only  a  secondary  part,  say  equal  to  that  which  the  grind 
stone  plays  in  sharpening  a  steel  axe.  And  by  strong 
I  refer  by  no  means  to  men  of  action,  but  to  individuals 
whose  latent  power  of  endurance  and  resistance  is  great 
er  than  any  force  of  aggression  falling  to  its  lot  to  strive 
with,  and  the  most  formidable  onslaught  may  affect  its 
possessor  only  happily  if  at  all." 

There  was  proof  of  the  blindness,  and  therefore  of 
the  inexorableness  of  this  power,  in  that  Gombarov 
stumbled  upon  his  discovery  much  later,  when  he  had  left 
all  the  events  which  led  up  to  it,  sent  to  try  him,  quite 
behind  him,  like  so  many  mile-stones.  He  had  at  this 
time  paid  in  thirty  years  of  his  debt  to  creditor  Time, 
leaving  an  unknown  balance  which,  with  experience  thus 
gained,  he  hoped  to  make  better  use  of. 

Nevertheless,  he  deemed  the  experiences  which  had  so 
far  fallen  to  his  lot  peculiarly  his  own,  in  that  his  per 
sonality  had  attracted  them  like  a  magnet  and  rejected 
others — a  process,  to  his  way  of  thinking,  automatic  and 
subconscious. 

He  made  himself  clear  on  this  point.  Many  of  his 
adventures  seemed  hardly  picturesque  or  joyous  at  the 
time  they  took  place.  On  the  contrary,  some  of  them 


OVERTURE  ix 

seemed  very  confused,  unnecessary  and  almost  too  pain 
ful.  They  became  pictures,  orderly  old-masterly  com 
positions  only  much  later,  in  the  looking  back  on  them, 
when  they  lost  their  sting  for  him,  and  the  pain  of 
them  was  gone,  when  the  artist  in  him  apprehended  the 
man  in  divine  detachment.  When  the  confusion  of  the 
present  had  ceased  to  be,  and  he  looked  back  on  all  with 
a  serene  onlooker's  eye  it  became  clear  to  him  that 
whatever  the  unknown  future  might  reveal,  his  unplanned 
and  apparently  chaotic  past  was  as  consequent  and  as 
logical  as  the  game  of  an  expert  chess  player,  who  had 
planned  all  his  moves  ahead  and  made  many  sacrifices 
and  seeming  mistakes  to  secure  the  position  he  wanted. 
There  was,  of  course,  the  pain  of  doubt,  unlooked-for 
moves  by  a  wily  adversary,  temporary  regrets  at  hav 
ing  moved  a  pawn  to  the  wrong  square  or  at  having 
moved  a  knight  backward  instead  of  forward. 

And,  in  this  series  of  pictures  of  life  looked  back  upon, 
Gombarov  saw  each  picture  complete  in  itself,  yet  all 
of  them  together  formed  the  parts  of  a  larger  and 
grander  composition,  which  gave  rise  to  a  mood,  akin 
to  the  one  in  which  he  had  many  a  time  stood  before  a 
wall  decoration  by  Veronese  or  Titian,  as,  eyeing  a 
small  detail  of  the  panel,  he  had  said  to  himself :  "Here 
is  a  piece  of  colour  so  beautiful  that  I  should  be  happy 
in  possessing  but  a  few  square  inches  of  it,  framed,  and 
hung  on  my  wall."  In  such  a  mood  he  liked  to  think 
of  a  man's  life  not  as  a  play  or  a  novel  but  as  a  collec 
tion  of  short  stories  conceived  by  a  single  mind  and 
dominated  by  a  single  personality,  which  in  some  latent 
unobvious  way  is  the  sole  hero  of  them  all. 

That  was  one  mood.  In  another  more  ecstatic  mo 
ment  all  the  parts  of  his  varied  life  appeared  to  merge 
inevitably  into  a  structural  unity,  like  a  Greek  play. 


x  OVERTURE 

Now  he  could  afford  to  laugh  at  the  sinister  comedy  of 
life,  its  grotesque  macabre,  its  distorted,  gargoyle-like 
beauty,  for  he  had  acted  Act  One — his  past — and  while 
acting,  he  had  suddenly  caught  sight  of  himself,  to 
wards  the  end  of  the  act,  in  a  mirror  hidden  in  the 
wings ;  and,  having  once  got  hold  of  the  secret,  he  became 
thereafter,  as  it  were  in  an  instant,  yet  really  not  in  an 
instant,  a  spectator  of  his  own  absurd  figure,  whose 
face  appeared  to  laugh  or  to  sob,  according  to  the  con 
tour  in  which  it  was  revealed,  as  he  stood  there  strain 
ing  his  ear  to  catch  the  words  of  some  strange,  unseen 
prompter  in  an  unrehearsed  play.  And,  having  caught 
with  all  this  a  sense  of  inevitable  fatality  which  attends 
upon  those  born  to  incur  the  steady  displeasure  of  the 
gods,  he  felt  that  now  he  could  go  on  with  the  tragi 
comic  play  with  keen  interest,  even  amusement,  that 
indeed  to  some  degree  he  could  assist,  if  need  be  sup 
plant,  the  demoniac  prompter. 

There  was  still  another  mood,  in  which  he  thought  of 
his  past  as  of  a  once  dark  cavern,  lit  up  in  the  begin 
ning  as  by  flashes  of  lightning — rare  moments  followed 
by  long  lapses  of  deeper  darkness — a  cavern  now  ever 
accessible  to  him  by  the  pressure  of  an  unseen  and  mys 
terious  push-button,  which,  at  his  will  arid  in  his  own 
chosen  time,  flooded  the  place  with  light;  the  designs 
thus  suddenly  revealed  upon  the  walls  were  at  once 
precise,  beautiful  and  fantastic.  He  indeed  had  once 
suspected  them  there  as  he  groped  with  his  fingers  and 
felt  the  incisions  in  the  rough  stone  and  wondered  as 
he  groped  there  whether  the  graven  figures  were  mon 
sters  or  angels.  He  could  not  even  say  with  any  de 
gree  of  surety  that  the  figures  were  there  in  the  be 
ginning.  He  did  not  remember  when  he  first  felt  their 
presence,  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  some  unseen  and 


OVERTURE  xi' 

ever-present  spirit  had  cut  them  into  the  stone  during 
his,  John  Gombarov's,  life-time,  and  again  that  he  had 
learned  to  discern  them  only  gradually  with  eyes  which 
grew  ever  sharper  in  the  darkness  and  to  feel  them 
with  ringers  which  grew  more  and  more  sensitive  as  the 
time  went  on.  He  had  slept  on  a  stone  for  pillow  and 
dreamt  of  angels.  He  had  wrestled  in  the  darkness 
with  the  invisible  one — as  Jacob  had  wrestled  with  the 
angel,  and  knew  that  he  had  thrown  him,  though,  like 
Jacob  he  suffered  his  adversary  to  maim  him. 

Lines  had  come  on  his  face  early,  formed  less  by 
wind  or  storm  of  circumstance  than  by  internal  action, 
volcanic  as  it  were  in  character:  it  was  as  if  the  restless 
ness  within  had  forced  the  outer  resisting  shell  into  for 
mations  masking  rather  than  revealing;  lines  of  strength 
and  of  pathos  mixed  themselves  up  on  his  face,  which, 
especially  when  he  laughed — and  he  laughed  often — 
gave  him  a  strange  exotic  look,  of  which  he  was  not 
unconscious,  having  often  in  his  loneliness  "made  faces" 
at  himself  in  the  mirror.  This  either  amused  or  terri 
fied  him;  for  it  was  strange  to  see  his  face  so  absurdly 
benign  in  repose,  its  diffuse  smile  all  radiating  as  it 
were  from  eyes  full  of  pity,  transformed  in  an  instant 
into  an  appearance  malignant  and  Mephistophelian.  And 
as  his  face  in  repose  had  dignity  he  concluded  that  evil 
had  some  indefinable  connection  with  ugliness,  and  that 
his  ability  to  render  himself  thus  leeringly  ugly  was  an 
indication  that  behind  the  god  in  him  lurked  .a  satyr.  He 
was  confident  that  had  not  our  poor  life  placed  so 
many  shackles  on  him  and  drained  him  of  his  physical 
strength  it  would  have  been  as  easy  for  him  to  prac 
tise  Mohammedan  virtues  as  Christian  charity.  Such  is 
the  heart  of  man,  which  as  the  Russians  say,  is  a  dark 
forest. 


xii  OVERTURE 

The  spirit  of  the  East  lay  dreamily  upon  his  other 
wise  energetic,  clear-cut  features,  and  gave  them,  when 
not  animated,  a  curious  sense  of  arrested  activity.  Thus 
a  white-garmented  Arab,  poised  on  his  horse  at  stand 
still,  might  have  looked  on  beholding  a  mirage  in  a 
desert.  He  was  rather  proud  of  this  likeness  to  an 
Arab,  and  though  he  was  a  Jew  he  had  no  ambition 
of  being  a  Rothschild,  but  an  intense  romantic  longing, 
never  to  be  gratified,  of  living  in  caravansaries.  And  it 
was  perhaps  this  insatiate  longing  that  in  spite  of  his 
Western  habits  and  Western  environment  made  him  look 
upon  life  with  an  Eastern  eye:  "Life  is  a  caravansary, 
men  come  and  men  go."  But  with  this  was  complicated 
the  fact  that  his  family  had  been  domiciled  on  Russian 
soil  for  many  generations,  so  that  a  note  of  the  restless 
Slav  nature  crept  into  his  deep  grey  eyes,  and  its  sad 
ness  overlaid  the  Eastern  fatalism  like  a  scant  veil. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  curiosity  in  his  long  straight 
nose  slightly  dipping  at  the  point,  and  his  lips  were 
full  and  sensual.  Black  ringlety  hair  fell  about  his  head 
and  strayed  to  his  pale  forehead.  Sometimes  he  looked 
incredibly  young  for  his  years,  sometimes  much  too* old. 

Altogether  this  personality  represented  in  its  make-up 
a  clash  of  races,  a  clash  of  temperaments,  a  clash  of  re 
flective  and  energetic  forces,  and  having  been  torn  up  by 
the  roots  from  its  original  mould,  and  replanted  in  an 
other  place,  then  reshifted  elsewhere — having  moreover 
come  ut^der  the  influence  of  the  unstable,  shifting  arts 
and  moralities  of  the  age,  and  yet  kept  something  of  the 
nature  of  its  ancient  soul, — this  personality  was  almost 
a  physical  symbol  of  the  tenacious  persistence  of  old 
spirits  under  the  pressure  of  an  age  of  iron,  twentieth 
century  cosmopolitanism. 

But  Gombarov  realised  this  only  much  later,  when  he 


OVERTURE  xiii 

came  to  London,  and  idle  but  hospitable  hostesses,  anx 
ious  to  replenish  their  stock  of  lions,  invited  him  to  after 
noon  teas.  As  he  modestly  regarded  himself  as  only  a 
cub,  he  was  no  little  astonished  to  what  extent  his  fame, 
yet  to  be  earned,  had  preceded  him.  For  he  had  no 
motor  car,  he  having  just  then  come  from  a  land  in 
which  the  possession  of  a  motor  car  was  the  accepted 
measure  of  literary  success.  But  here  in  London,  with 
ten  shillings  to  his  bank  account,  he  was  held  to  be  a 
potential  person;  so  that  after  many  lean,  unappreciated 
years  it  pleased  him  to  hear  in  this  welcoming  island  the 
women's  pleasant  voices  greeting  him  after  introduction, 
not  without  stirring  in  him  a  sense  of  quiet  irony: 

"I  am  so  fond  of  the  Russians !" 

As  if  he  were  a  delicious  oyster. 

You  almost  expected  to  hear  them  say:  "Let's  have 
another!" 

It  mattered  little  that  he  so  often  lapsed  into  long 
silences,  for  he  bore  to  them  an  aspect  of  a  hawk  hover 
ing,  and  they  sometimes  glanced  at  him  from  under 
their  eye-lashes  as  if  they  expected  him  to  make  a  sud 
den  swoop  downwards  as  at  the  sight  of  prey,  and  to 
provoke  this  eloquent  flight  they  dropped  an  occasional 
remark  calculated  to  draw  him.  When  people  expect  so 
much  of  a  man  they  are  bound  to  be  disappointed,  and 
if  not  disappointed  it  is  because  they  will  so  often  attrib 
ute  to  the  man  who  has  thus  fallen  short  of  their  ex 
pectations  a  fascinating  if  irritating  nonchalance. 

But  at  the  time  our  story  begins  John  Gambarov  had 
far  from  begun  to  contemplate  life  with  the  careless 
nonchalance  of  a  tranquil  mask,  lit  up  at  rare  moments 
by  an  almost  imperceptible  smile  of  irony  as  motionless 
and  as  reposeful  as  Buddha's. 

This  mask  of  Gombarov's,  with  its  subtle  contours  of 


xiv  OVERTURE 

repose  and  irony,  was  not  created  in  a  day.  A  mask, 
it  may  be  assumed,  conceals  more  than  it  reveals.  And 
in  this  sense  a  mask  is  the  measure  of  art  It  may 
express  a  titanic  struggle  in  an  appearance  of  tran 
quillity.  And  in  the  degree  that  its  appearance  is  tran 
quil  to  that  extent  has  a  spirit  conquered  life.  The 
chaos  of  Gombarov's  existence  strove  toward  orderli 
ness,  his  torments  towards  peace,  his  pain  toward  beauty 
— all  these  shaped  the  mask  from  below  into  an  appear 
ance  of  tranquillity. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  making  of  a  human  mask. 


.    CONTENTS 

PART  I:    RUSSIA— THE  ROOTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    VANYA'S  CHILDHOOD:    How  HE  SAW  IT  AFTERWARD       19 

II.    VANYA'S  EDUCATION — His  FUTURE  DECIDED  BY  THE 

FAMILY'S  PAST 24 

III.  VANYA  MEETS  WITH  A  TRAGIC  ACTRESS  IN  THE  WOOD      34 

IV.  STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY  ABOUT  A 

CURIOUS  SECT,  AND  REVEALS  His  OWN  CHARACTER      39 

V.    GRANDFATHER  GOMBAROV  PLANS  A  LEISURE  VISIT 

TO  His  SON,  BUT  DEPARTS  IN  HASTE         ...       58 

VI.    STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  OCCUPATIONS — His  EQUIP 
MENT  AS  A  TRAGIC  CHARACTER 63 

VII.    "A  FRAIL,  LONE  SAPLING  ON  A  CREST  OF  A  HILL"     .       75 

VIII.    VANYA  WANTS  A  CUP  OF  TEA,  AND  is  ACCUSED  OF 

WANTING  THE  MOON 78 

IX.    ANOTHER   GOMBAROV   OPENS    His   EYES    ON   THE 

WORLD,  AND  is  NAMED  ABSALOM 82 

X.    ANOTHER  PORTRAIT — VANYA  LEARNS  THAT  THERE 

ARE  MYSTERIES  IN  LIFE 84 

XI.  A  VILLAIN  MAKES  HIS  APPEARANCE  ON  THE  SCENE  91 

XII.  MARTA'S  STRANGE  LOVER — VANYA'S  DREAM     .     .  98 

XIII.  VANYA'S  FURTHER  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  THE  DEVIL  103 

XIV.  CONSPIRACY — CONFLAGRATION  .......  107 

XV.  THE  GOMBAROVS  DECIDE  TO  EMIGRATE  .     .     .     .  115 

XVI.    THE  LEAVE-TAKING — VANYA'S  DREAM    .     .     .     .     121 

XV 


xvi  CONTENTS 

PART  II:    AMERICA— THE  TRANSPLANTING 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    A  PRELUDE,   IN   WHICH  A   CERTAIN  WARNING  is 

REPEATED 129 

II.    THE  OLD  MANTLE  OF  AHASUERUS  DESCENDS  UPON 

YOUNG  VANYA 140 

III.  THE  GOMBAROVS  BEGIN  THEIR  NEW  LIFE  .     .     .     151 

IV.  STEPFATHER    GOMBAROV'S    NEW    VENTURE    AND 

ADVENTURE 166 

V.    JOHN  LEARNS  THAT  A  GOOD  COIN  RINGS  TRUE  AND 

THAT  A  GOOD  CIGAR  HAS  A  WHITE  ASH   .     .     .     187 

VI.    AN  ENTRANCE  AND  AN  EXIT— THE  CLASH  OF  Two 

WILLS,  A  THIRD  INTERVENING 195 

VII.    JOHN  LEARNS  OF  MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT     .     .     208 

VIII.    DEEPER    AND    DEEPER — MYSTERIES    AND    MORE 

MYSTERIES 229 

IX.    A  TRAGIC  HERO  GOES  SLOWLY  BUT  INEVITABLY  TO 

His  DOOM 240 

X.    AFTER  CEDIPUS  TYRANNUS  OEDIPUS  COLONEUS   .     .257 

XI.    THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  IN  THE  COUNCILS  OF  THE  GOM- 

BAROV  HOUSE 263 

XII.    JOHN  "MAKES  PALS  WITH  KOLTCHUR" — AMERICAN 

PLAN 284 

XIII.  Two   LONG   YEARS   KILLED   IN   ONE   CHAPTER — 

CURIOUS  ADVENTURES,  MOSTLY  OF  THE  SOUL     .     291 

XIV.  How  A  TREE  HELPED  TO  MAKE  A  TURNING  POINT 

IN  THE  GOMBAROVS'  LIVES 314 

XV.    THE  GOMBAROVS  MIGRATE  FROM  THEIR  HOUSE  ON  A 

HILL  TO  A  CUL-DE-SAC  IN  TOWN 319 


PART  I 
RUSSIA— THE  ROOTS 


"And  the  Lord  said  unto  Satan,  Behold,  he  is  in 
thine  hand;  but  save  his  life." 


THE  MASK 

PART  I 

CHAPTER  I 
VATTYA'S  CHILDHOOD  :  HOW  HE  SAW  IT  AFTERWARD 

THERE  was  first  of  all  the  little  village,  more  a  dream 
than  a  memory.  Looking  backward,  there  were  things 
which  outlined  themselves  with  shrill  clearness,  there 
were  things  which  lost  themselves  in  a  confused  haze. 
There  were  keen  moments,  moods  of  quiet  aloneness, 
when  John  Gombarov,  sitting  in  his  little  room  in  Lon 
don,  his  whole  being  attuned  to  see,  to  hear  and  to  feel, 
shot  arrows  of  vision  across  the  seas,  lands  and  years 
which  separated  him  from  this  little  place,  where  he 
spent  the  first  ten  years  of  his  life.  And  all  this  early 
childhood  re-erected  itself  before  him  more  like  phan 
tasmagoria  than  life.  It  was  in  the  beginning  a  world 
of  germinating  chaos — a  world  of  blind  fears,  of  hardly 
conscious  desires,  of  all  sorts  of  frail,  quivering  things — 
an  altogether  nebulous  world,  in  which  you  heard  some 
thing,  saw  something,  felt  something;  you  grazed  a 
vague  shape  here,  a  phantom  there,  but  there  were  other 
shapes  and  half-shadows  of  shapes,  unknown  and  half- 
familiar,  which  eluded  you,  darted  away  like  so  many 
blurs  in  a  fog,  and  filled  the  thick  air  with  their  blurred 
laughter.  And  he  seemed  to  hear  human  voices,  dis 
jointed  fragments  of  conversation,  yet  could  not  distin 
guish  the  words. 

19 


20    '  ':;••;••:     THE*  MASK 

In  a  sense,  all  his  childhood,  spent  in  Russian  woods 
and  country,  was  like  that.  But  there  were  oases  of 
lucidity,  sun-lit  spaces  which  stood  out  in  harsh  contrast 
against  the  grey  living  mystery  from  which  you  just 
emerged.  And  it  was  strange  to  reflect  that  just  as  it 
was  with  people,  only  a  few  of  the  many  he  had  met 
stood  out  with  sharp  distinctness,  so  it  was  with  the 
birds,  the  flowers  and  the  trees  he  had  lived  among.  Of 
all  the  birds  he  had  heard  cawing  and  singing  he  remem 
bered  only  the  crow  and  the  nightingale,  of  all  the  flow 
ers  he  had  seen,  his  memory  resurrected  most  vividly 
the  poppies  and  the  sun-flowers — fields  and  gardens  of 
green,  studded  with  red  and  yellow  like  tapestry.  As 
for  trees,  he  lived  among  them,  with  them — he  might 
have  been  one  of  them — yet  he  knew  them  not  so  much 
as  pines,  as  willows,  as  oaks,  but  simply  as  trees.  He 
was  a  strange  child  without  talent  for  particularization 
and  with  an  almost  over-powering  tendency  to  abstrac 
tion,  so  much  so  that  he  remembered  having  bent  down 
one  day  in  the  woods  to  pick  up  a  live  but  motionless 
iron-grey  snake  which  he  had  mistaken  for  a  piece  of 
iron,  afterwards  withdrawing  his  hand  in  sudden  appre 
hension.  Perhaps  it  was  that  he  felt  life  rather  than 
observed  it,  that  he  was  a  delicate,  absorbing  mechanism, 
which,  through  a  union  of  the  senses,  received  life  as  a 
single  impression,  as  a  distilled  essence.  And  thus  it 
was  that  although  men  spoke  and  the  birds  sang  and  the 
trees  rustled  in  the  wind,  it  all  somehow  seemed  merged 
for  the  boy  into*  one  vast,  aching  silence.  And  he  stood 
before  the  vastness  of  this  thing  as  before  a  great  cliff, 
an  abyss,  or  the  sea;  with  the  apprehension  of  a  young 
chick  on  the  edge  of  the  water  as  it  watches  its  step 
mother-duck  floating  away  with  its  ducklings,  leaving 
it  behind.  But  this  too  he  had  begun  to  perceive  early : 
that  he  was  in  some  way,  as  yet  incomprehensible  to  him, 
different. 


VANYA'S  CHILDHOOD  21 

Childhood  is  the  background  of  one's  life.  And  in 
this  background,  as  in  the  background  of  a  picture,  many 
things  slowly  lose  themselves  in  the  perspective, — in 
definably  and  imperceptibly  lose  themselves,  somewhere 
among  the  mellow  warm  tones,  as  in  a  peaceful  pastoral, 
in  a  dense  wood,  or  in  a  wall  of  blue  sky.  In  trying 
to  recall  the  background  of  his  past  Gombarov  often 
found  himself  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  was  straining 
his  ear  intently  to  catch  the  distant  notes  of  a  pastoral 
song  which  came  to  him  but  faintly,  in  snatches,  and 
who  suffered  all  the  pain  of  those  lapsed  intervals  which 
no  exertion  of  his  imagination  could  fill  out. 

Then  there  is  the  foreground.  That  is  another  mat 
ter.  Things  and  people  are  always  clear  in  the  fore 
ground.  All  the  rest  is  like  a  drop-curtain,  against 
which  the  people  you  have  known  are  clearly  outlined, 
whether  they  walk,  speak  or  smile,  laugh  hysterically, 
or  wring  their  hands  tragically  to  heaven.  And  against 
this  drop-curtain,  picture  after  picture  passed  before 
Gombarov's  eyes. 

There  was  the  house  he  was  born  in  and  lived  in,  a 
half  mile  from  the  village.  A  large,  two-story  cottage, 
with  a  varandah  that  ran  round  three  sides  of  it,  it  stood 
in  the  middle  of  a  large  grove  of  trees,  separated  on 
three  sides  from  the  forest  by  a  fence  of  wooden  rails, 
which  continued  its  way  around  the  fourth  side  that 
bordered  on  the  road.  But  the  front  of  the  house  faced 
the  forest,  and  a  path,  neither  broad  nor  narrow,  led 
to  the  forest  through  a  small  gate.  A  broader  path 
curved  from  the  entrance  round  the  house  and  broadened 
out  even  more  as  it  joined  the  road  through  the  wide 
gate.  Coming  out  of  this  gate  a  walk  of  five  minutes  to 
the  left  would  have  brought  you  to  a  stretch  of  country, 
miles  of  green  meadows  and  wide  golden  patches  of 
corn-fields.  Turning  to  the  right  from  the  gate  would 


22  THE  MASK 

have  led  you  to  the  village.  Half  way  up  you  came  to 
a  crest  of  a  hill ;  below,  of  an  early  morning,  you  might 
have  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  the  little  village  inun 
dated  by  a  sea  of  sun-mellowed  mist;  you  saw  as  it 
were  floating  a  gabled  thatched  roof,  with  its  white, 
smoking  chimney,  looking  altogether  like  the  top  of  a 
miniature  Noah's  Ark;  elsewhere  you  saw  the  tall,  gilt- 
topped,  sun-lit  spire  of  the  church,  appearing  to  your 
half -awakened  eyes  more  a  lighthouse  than  a  church 
spire;  the  tops  of  trees  peered  out  as  a  beautiful  grey 
tracery  against  grey  water;  there  were  the  little  white 
tombstones  and  jagged  grey  crosses  jutting  out  on  the 
side  of  a  hill  in  the  distance;  the  mist  seemed  to  hover 
over  them  softly,  as  over  a  flock  of  motionless  birds. 
Slowly  the  mist  lifted;  reluctantly  the  earth  threw  off 
her  early  morning  robe,  revealing  the  more  precise  beau 
ties  of  her  superb  torso,  gleaming  with  dew  after  her 
bath  as  with  small  jewels,  silvery  in  the  shaded  parts, 
golden  in  the  sun.  Gradually  as  the  mist  shifted  farther, 
your  eyes,  shaded  by  a  hand,  journeyed  in  its  wake, 
scanned  the  great  distances,  and  watched,  fifteen  versts 
away,  the  disclosing  of  that  most  golden  of  jewels,  the 
golden  cupolas  of  Kieff,  cupola  upon  cupola,  a  cluster 
of  cupolas,  arranged  like  a  Byzantine  brooch. 

If  you  lingered  a  while  you  would  have  heard  the 
gradual  approaching  of  voices  behind  you,  you  would 
have  seen  other  eyes  intent  upon  that  splash  of  gold 
which  beckoned  like  a  flaming  torch  to  the  holy  wayfarer, 
the  honest  pilgrim,  the  Bogomolctz,  who,  his  legs 
swathed  in  rags,  a  bag  of  dry  bread  crusts  on  his  back, 
had  been  walking  many  dreary  miles  for  days,  for 
months,  to  behold  this  sight  of  sights,  this  glory  of 
glories,  holy  Kieff  on  the  Dnieper,  where  the  heart  of  lit 
tle  Mother  Russia  molten  from  the  hearts  of  dead  saints 
beat  tremulously  and  enkindled  in  the  beholder,  the  re 
pentant  sinner,  an  ecstasy  of  humility  and  pity,  a  rhythm 


VANYA'S  CHILDHOOD  23 

of  charity,  a  mood  of  stone-heavy  burdens  lifted,  a  feel 
ing  of  purification  at  having  washed  one's  blood-stained 
hands  in  the  white  milk  of  holiness — little  mother  Russia 
would  take  all,  little  mother  Russia  would  forgive  every 
thing  ! 

Day  after  day  these  little  straggling  processions  passed 
on  the  road  by  the  Gombarov  house.  Vanya  had  often 
stood  at  the  gate  there  with  Afanasya,  a  middle-aged 
peasant  woman,  the  family  nurse  for  years,  at  whose 
breast  he  had  taken  milk;  and  as  he  watched  her  grey 
angular  face,  rigidly  outlined  in  a  bandanna  kerchief, 
a  face  kind  in  its  austerity,  like  a  drawing  by  Holbein, 
he  heard  her  spoken  to  by  some  old  greybeard : 

"A  crust  of  bread,  for  the  sake  of  God !    Radi  Boga!" 
And  the  good  Afanasya  would  go  to  the  house,  to 
reappear  with  a  big  quarter  of  a  loaf  of  black  bread, 
which  she  would  hand  to  the  man  with  the  remark : 

"Here,  little  old  man,  starichok!  Go  on  your  way, 
and  don't  forget  to  pray  for  me." 

The  pilgrim  would  pronounce  a  word  of  blessing  and 
go  on.    Other  Bogomoltsi  would  go  by. 
"A  crust  of  bread,  babushka,  radi  Boga!" 
"You  are  too  late,  starichok,  I've  already  given  away 
all  I  had." 

"Never  mind,  babushka,  thanks  all  the  same." 
Did  young  Vanya  understand  all  that  this  meant  ?  He 
saw  and  he  heard,  but  he  did  not  understand.  No  one 
ever  told  him  anything.  And  he  hated  all  that  he  was 
taught.  He  detested  more  than  anything  else  his  Ger 
man  lessons. 


CHAPTER  II 

VANYA'S    EDUCATION — HIS    FUTURE   DECIDED    BY    THE 
FAMILY'S  PAST 

LITTLE  VANYA  went  to  the  village  to  his  tutor's  house 
to  study  his  German  lesson.  It  was  early  in  the  after 
noon,  the  tutor — Boris  Lvovitch  Polensky — was  always 
out  at  this  time  giving  lessons  elsewhere,  he  would  not 
be  back  for  another  three  hours,  and  he  would  then  see 
what  Vanya  had  learned. 

Vanya  took  up  his  German  grammar,  scanned  his 
exercises,  and  sat  there  moping.  He  was  not  thinking 
of  his  German  lessons.  There  were  so  many  other  things 
to  think  of.  Vanya  was  a  little  fantast,  and  even  then 
he  felt  all  the  misery  of  a  day-dreamer  assigned  to  the 
exacting  tasks  of  daily  routine.  What  was  the  use  of 
German?  He  could  not  tell  why,  but  in  some  way  that 
he  could  not  understand  the  mere  sound  of  it  grated  on 
his  ear.  But  there  were  many  irrefutable  reasons  why 
he  must  study  German.  His  father  knew  German,  his 
grandfather  knew  German,  most  of  his  uncles,  first 
cousins  and  second  cousins  knew  German,  his  elder 
brother  knew  German.  His  younger  brother  would 
study  German.  In  short,  it  was  the  tradition  of  the 
family  to  know  German.  It  was  part  of  the  tradition 
of  a  family  which  for  generations  had  trained  physicians, 
though  latterly  some  of  its  members  had  become  engi 
neers.  Vanya  in  his  childish  way  did  not  care  to  become 
either  a  physician  or  an  engineer  if  he  had  to  study 
German  in  order  to  become  one.  Not  that  he  knew  what 

24 


VANYA'S  EDUCATION  25 

he  wanted  to  be.  In  any  case,  it  was  decreed  that  Vanya 
should  become  a  physician,  and  Vanya  bowed  to  superior 
force  and  studied  German — in  a  fashion. 

Vanya  sat  there  moping,  musing  upon  a  thousand 
things  .  .  .  the  beautiful  woods  he  loved  to  play  in  ... 
a  wonderful  world  in  which  no  German  was  spoken. 
And  at  the  age  of  eight  he  was  already  driven  to  intro 
spection,  a  habit  he  developed  in  the  hours  meant  to  be 
devoted  to  his  German,  a  habit  that  was  further  encour 
aged  by  excellent  introspective  material.  And  like  all 
introspective  children  he  lived  in  a  world  of  silent  misery, 
a  world  all  his  own,  sombre  and  restless,  which  no  one 
at  home,  not  even  his  mother,  attempted  to  enter  and 
to  lighten  in  some  way.  He  sat  in  that  little  room  for 
hours  thinking  of  the  world  he  lived  in  and  the  people 
in  it.  Who  were  these  people? 

There  was  first  of  all  his  stepfather,  whose  name  he 
bore.  But  no! — he  paused  for  a  moment  to  think  of  his 
own  father,  goodness  knew  where  he  was  now,  and 
where  he  had  taken  away  Feodor,  Vanya's  eldest  brother. 
He  but  dimly  remembered  one  episode — a  scuffle  in  the 
house,  chairs  being  overturned,  pictures  coming  down 
from  the  walls,  he — Vanya — appearing  in  the  door 
screaming ;  he  vaguely  recalled  the  three  agitated  figures, 
those  of  his  father,  his  mother  and  that  other  person, 
an  instructor  in  the  house,  as  he  learnt  later.  Vanya 
was  three  then,  how  could  he  possibly  know?  He  only 
knew  that  his  papa  had  gone  away  and  that  he  would 
never,  never  come  back  again,  and  that  he  must  never 
refer  to  him  as  papa  any  more,  he  indeed  was  soon  to 
learn  that  there  was  a  new  papa  in  the  house.  And  in 
spite  of  his  infancy  some  mysterious  instinct  in  his  heart 
resisted  all  the  efforts  to  impose  upon  it  the  will  of 
maturer  forces.  He  would  not  call  him  papa,  and  only 
did  so  in  rare  instances,  in  embarrassment  and  with 
great  constraint.  And  in  an  unconscious  way  he  must 


26  THE  MASK 

have  found  no  little  strength  and  justification  for  his 
attitude  in  the  example  of  his  mother,  who  almost  in 
variably  referred  to  his  stepfather  as  Gombarov,  and 
even  addressed  him  by  that  name. 

Five  years  had  passed  since  he  saw  his  father,  and  he 
continued  to  think  of  him,  although  he  did  not  remem 
ber  his  face.  He  remembered  only  his  medium  stature, 
his  pallor  and  his  black  beard,  while  all  efforts  to  recall 
his  features  ended  in  the  struggling  thought  beating  help 
lessly  against  the  insurmountable  wall  which  erected  it 
self  in  his  mind.  In  the  end,  exhausted,  he  would  give 
up  in  despair.  But  there  were  things — incidents,  which 
he  remembered  with  great  clearness.  It  was  astonishing, 
he  reflected,  that  he  should  not  remember  how  his  father 
looked,  and  yet  remember  some  of  the  things  his  father 
did  for  him.  There  were  the  sticks  of  chocolate  he 
used  to  bring  him  from  town,  and  what  was  better  he 
had  taken  him  to  town  once  or  twice  with  him  and 
bought  him  each  time  a  plate  of  sakhamy  moroz, 
sugared  frost,  that  is  ice  cream.  He  remembered  a 
tragic  circumstance  of  one  of  these  expeditions,  when 
dragged  by  his  father  through  the  muddy  streets,  he 
lost  one  galosh.  He  also  recalled  with  delight  how  his 
father  sitting  with  crossed  knees,  would  stand  him  on  the 
tip  of  his  swinging  foot,  and  swinging  him  up  and  down 
to  the  accompaniment  of  this  original  rhyme  on  his, 
Vanya's,  name: 

"Vanchik,  stakanchik,  barabanchik,  charlatanchik , 
balvanchik,  ingermanchik" — that  is,  "Little  Vanya,  little 
tumbler,  little  drum,  little  charlatan,  little  fool,  little 
young  man,"  and  so  on  indefinitely.  It  used  to  amaze 
him  to  see  how  many  such  rhymed  variations  could  be 
got  out  of  the  diminutive  of  his  name.  And  it  seemed 
strange  that  his  father  should  live  for  him  not  as  a 
portrait,  but  as  a  group  of  associations. 

It  was  not  less  strange  about  Vanya's  elder  brother, 


VANYA'S  EDUCATION  27 

Feodor — or  Fedya,  as  he  knew  him,  by  whose  side  he 
sometimes  walked  in  KiefF.  He  remembered  Fedya 
as  always  dressed  in  his  school  uniform,  and,  running 
to  keep  pace  with  him,  he  admired  his  regulation  grey 
overcoat  with  its  silver  buttons  and  his  grey  visored  cap 
with  its  impressive  badge.  It  was  useless  to>  try  to 
recall  his  brother's  face,  he  only  remembered  the  grey 
and  silver  uniform. 

But  to  return  to  his  stepfather — Semyon  Bogdano- 
vitch  Gombarov.  At  that  time  Vanya  had  not  quite 
realised  how  this  man  had  come  into  his  life,  and  why 
he  felt  constraint  in  his  presence.  Not  alone  constraint, 
but  fear  also.  But  why  should  he  fear  this  man  who  re 
spected  the  unspoken  truce  between  them,  and  who  never 
even  beat  him  and  who  left  all  chastisement  of  Vanya 
to  his  mother,  which  was  not  always  the  case  with  the 
other  children  in  the  house?  He  did  not  fear  him  as  a 
child  fears  its  stepfather,  but  as  a  child  fears  the  dark. 
For  the  dark  to  all  children  is  a  world  by  itself,  and 
all  sorts  of  fearful,  invisible  beings  walk  about  in  it, 
and  all  sorts  of  terrible  things  happen  in  it.  Might  not 
one  awake  in  the  morning  to  find  that  something  had 
been  stolen  from  the  room  or  that  something  else  had 
been  put  in  it?  The  coming  then  of  this  man  into  his 
life  was  like  an  awakening,  his  first  realisation  of  change, 
of  life  itself,  which  was  a  kind  of  darkness,  in  which 
things  can  be  taken  from  you  and  other  things  left  in 
their  place.  What  did  he  lose  then,  and  what  was  put 
into  its  place?  He  hardly  knew.  But  he  did  not  like 
the  idea — the  idea  that  certain  things  can  be  taken  from 
you,  without  your  consent  or  foreknowledge.  At  all 
events,  from  that  moment — the  moment  his  father  left 
the  house  and  his  stepfather  came  in — he  began  to  be 
afraid  of  life  as  of  a  darkness,  in  which  some  things 
might  be  taken  from  you  and  other  things  put  in  their 
place.  And  so  it  came  about  that  he  could  seldom  look 


28  THE  MASK 

upon  the  small,  stocky,  agile  man,  with  his  sturdy  black 
moustaches  and  his  small  but  sharp  wedge-like  beard, 
without  a  strange,  almost  unreasonable  apprehension. 

Vanya  suddenly  picked  up  his  book,  scanned  his  oral 
exercises,  those  curious  Gothic  characters  which  he  had 
to  translate  into  Russian,  then  the  more  familiar  Rus 
sian  phrases,  which  for  some  reason  unknown  to  him- 
self  he  had  to  put  into  German,  and  recite  orally  to  his 
tutor.  He  dropped  his  book,  picked  up  a  plum  out  of 
the  small  bagful  that  he  brought  with  him,  and  slowly 
drawing  up  its  rich  contents  through  a  small  hole  made 
in  the  purple-red  skin,  he  resumed  his  musing. 

He  thought  of  his  mother,  a  small  sensitive-faced  WCH 
man  with  dark  hair  and  deep  grey  eyes — Vanya  was 
said  to  resemble  her — who  was  very  active,  and  ap 
peared  to  be  everywhere  about  the  house,  so  that  Vanya, 
on  rare  occasions,  stealing  a  newly-baked  goody  out  of 
the  cupboard,  would  go  off  into  the  woods  with  it  to 
escape  being  observed  not  only  by  his  mother  but  also 
by  his  two  elder  sisters,  Raya  and  Dunya.  And  he  re 
minded  himself  at  that  moment  that  only  yesterday  his 
mother  had  whipped  him  for  stealing  a  jam  tart,  whicfy 
he  did  not  do  at  all — and  this  episode  created  for  him 
a  sense  of  injustice  all  the  more  keen  because  he  had 
not  been  punished  on  previous  occasions  when  he  was 
really  culpable  and  had  brazened  the  thing  out  by  pro 
testing  his  innocence.  After  that  he  somehow  realised 
that  he  was  a  criminal  and  had  certain  rights  as  such; 
he  tore  away  from  his  mother  in  a  furious  rage,  and 
began  to  throw  the  chairs  about  the  room,  and  when  his 
mother  chased  him  he  ran  out  of  doors,  into  the  woods, 
and  with  tears  still  in  his  eyes  he  began  to  kill  all  sorts 
of  living  things  which  happened  to  come  his  way.  Then 
he  suddenly  stopped  short,  as  a  regret — oh,  so  poign 
ant! — came  upon  him;  he  turned  homewards,  slowly, 
sorrowfully;  there  was  a  thing  like  a  small  mouse  gnaw- 


VANYA'S  EDUCATION  29 

ing,  nibbling  at  his  heart,  and  with  each  nibble  he  seemed 
to  move  a  foot.  His  mind  was  filled  with  dull,  sluggish, 
remorseful  thoughts,  as  with  lingering  fumes  after  a 
rapid  blaze.  He  stole  through  the  hall  of  the  house 
quietly  and  up  the  stairs,  he  peeped  into  the  children's 
bedroom  and,  seeing  it  empty,  he  climbed  on  his  bed 
and,  burying  his  face  in  the  pillow,  burst  into  tears. 
It  was  here,  in  that  state,  that  Afanasya  found  him, 
and  putting  his  head  on  her  lap  caressed  his  hair.  At 
last,  after  much  coaxing,  he  told  her  what  he  had  done. 

"I've  killed  many  living  things  I" 

"What  did  you  kill?" 

"A  beetle." 

"What  else?" 

"A  frog." 

"What  else?" 

"A  lady-bird/1 

"Is  that  all?" 

"A  grasshopper." 

"Anything  else  ?" 

"A  dragon-fly.  .  .  ." 

Then  after  a  pause : 

"And  I  cut  a  lizard  in  two." 

"Well,  Vanya,  you  are  a  little  murderer,  to  kill  God's 
own  creatures.  But  don't  you  know,  to  kill  a  lizard 
brings  bad  luck." 

At  this  piece  of  information  Vanya  was  on  the  point 
of  bursting  into  tears  again,  but  on  suddenly  seeing  his 
mother,  who  had  entered  the  room  unobserved,  his  little 
heart  closed  in  and  hardened  like  a  firm  young  bud,  and 
he  blurted  out  defiantly : 

"I  don't  care  if  it  does!" 

"Oh,  Vanya !"  exclaimed  both  women  at  the  same  time. 

But  Vanya  hardened  himself,  and  remained  obdurate 
to  both  women  who  had  given  him  his  existence,  one  by 
her  blood,  the  other  by  her  milk.  He  had  felt  himself 


30  THE  MASK 

bound  to  these  two  in  some  unaccountable  way,  and  was 
in  any  event  too  young  to  have  understood,  even  if  he 
had  seen  them,  the  words  of  the  Arabian  poet : 

"Pity  the  mother  who  yieldeth  up  her  child  to  another 
woman's  breast,  she  yieldeth  up  half  of  her  inheritance. 

"Blessed  the  child  who  hath  partaken  of  the  milk  of 
a  fine  stranger,  for  he  beareth  within  him  the  blood  of 
two  mothers." 

Gradually,  under  the  caressing  hands  of  his  mother, 
his  heart  opened  out  again,  petal-like,  and  a  warmth  be 
gan  to  suffuse  it  gently,  like  the  warmth  of  a  spring 
sun,  and  this  warmth  little  by  little  became,  as  it  were,  a 
tender  fluid,  and  spread  in  all  directions  in  so  many  rivu 
lets,  warming  him  from  head  to  foot  as  he  lay  there  so 
quiet  and  still  against  his  mother's  heart  without  a  word 
or  a  movement,  eyes  closed. 

Vanya  suddenly  opened  his  eyes,  expecting  to  find  his 
mother  there.  Instead,  his  eyes  fell  upon  his  German 
book,  open  where  he  left  it  open.  Once  more  he  scanned 
the  Russian  phrases  which  he  had  to  put  into  German. 
He  slowly  repeated  to  himself : 

"The  cheese  of  the  king  is  pretty." 

Then  in  German : 

"Der  Kass  von  der  Kaiser  ist  schon." 

The  next  phrase  was : 

"Will  they  sell  their  hen  to  her  father?" 

He  began  again : 

"Wollen  sie  verkaufen  .  .  ." 

He  put  the  book  down  again,  and  went  over  to  the 
window  to  catch  flies.  He  caught  quite  a  number,  tore 
off  their  wings,  and  putting  a  tumbler  over  them  watched 
them  walk  wingless.  Or  he  tipped  their  legs  into  ink 
and  watched  them  make  a  trail  across  the  white  paper 
he  had  torn  out  of  his  exercise  book.  Then  seized  with 
pity  and  remorse  for  his  acts,  he  tried  to  palliate  his  of- 


VANYA'S  EDUCATION  31 

fence  by  arguing  to  himself  in  its  justification,  quite  in 
the  manner  of  elders: 

"After  all,  I  haven't  any  wings,  have  I  ?  Yet  I  man 
age  to  get  along  somehow.  And  even  if  I  had  wings, 
mamma  or  Gombarov  or  Afanasya  or  Raya  or  Dunya 
or  even  Rivka,"  he  thought  at  that  moment  of  the  nice 
jam  tarts  and  cherry  dumplings  that  Rivka  made,  "would 
tear  them  off,  or  I  should  be  allowed  to  have  them 
only  on  Sunday.  And  anyway,  I'm  shut  in  here  just 
as  under  a  glass  and  I've  got  to  dip  my  pen  into  the  ink 
and  scrawl  on  paper  something  that  I  don't  want  to 
scrawl  just  as  I've  made  that  fly  do." 

But  somehow  Vanya,  quite  like  a  good  many  elders, 
felt  a  flaw  in  his  reasoning,  for  once  he  ceased  reason 
ing,  his  pity  and  remorse  returned. 

But  what  was  worse  than  the  return  of  pity  and  re 
morse  was  the  return  of  his  tutor,  whose  footsteps  he 
now  heard  in  the  hall. 

The  tutor,  however,  would  have  his  lunch  first,  so 
that  Vanya  had  still  twenty  minutes  left.  But  in  spite 
of  his  desperate  efforts  he  managed  to  learn  only  nine 
or  ten  sentences  out  of  eighteen  which  were  to  be  trans 
lated  into  German;  all  the  difficult  ones  which  he  failed 
to  master  he  underlined  with  a  pencil. 

Then  came  in  Boris  Lvovitch,  a  young  man  of  thirty, 
amiable  and  smart-looking,  with  turned-up  moustaches, 
which  seemed  like  two  sign-posts,  directing  your  atten 
tion  upward  to  the  formidable  forehead  and  saying: 
"Look  what  a  fine  high  forehead  I've  got."  But  Vanya 
was  not  to  be  diverted  by  this  ruse  from  what  was  his 
tutor's  real  distinction  for  him,  namely,  a  gold  tooth,  and 
almost  every  time  the  tutor  opened  his  mouth,  Vanya 
watched  it  with  fascinated  interest. 

"Well,  Vanya,  have  you  studied  your  lesson?" 

"Y-yes,"  said  Vanya  with  some  hesitation,  as  he 
caught  sight  of  a  gleam  of  that  tooth.  He  took  up  his 


32  THE  MASK 

book  and  began  to  read  off  the  German  sentences,  trans 
lating  them  quite  easily  into  Russian  as  he  went  along. 
When  he  came  to  the  Russian  sentences  he  translated 
them  with  great  hesitation  and  was  prompted  now  and 
then  by  the  master.  After  translating  what  he  had  learnt 
he  stopped  short. 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Boris  Lvovitch. 

"Yes  .  .  ."  replied  Vanya  awkwardly. 

"That's  strange,"  observed  the  tutor,  "those  transla 
tion  exercises  seem  to  be  getting  shorter  and  shorter 
instead  of  longer  and  longer.  Let  me  see  the  book." 

Poor  Vanya  handed  the  book  to  Boris  Lvovitch,  who 
looked  at  it  with  visibly  growing  amazement,  and  Vanya, 
watching  his  tutor's  face,  with  agitated  eyes,  thought 
that  his  master's  moustaches  had  grown  longer  and  his 
forehead  higher  as  in  a  rounded  silver-plated  dish.  He 
did  not  have  much  time  to  indulge  in  this  fancy,  for  the 
master,  running  over  the  previous  pages  and  noticing 
the  same  tell-tale  marks,  turned  upon  the  boy,  and  with 
a  wide  flourish  of  his  arm  struck  him  in  the  face  with 
the  open  palm  of  his  hand. 

Vanya's  eyes  were  dry  and  he  stood  there  without 
stirring,  and  he  neither  cried  out  nor  said  a  word,  and 
his  left  cheek  glowed  an  eloquent  red.  There  were  only 
two  things  which  appeared  to  live  in  the  room :  the  clock 
and  Vanya's  heart — or  was  it  only  one? — it  was  as  if 
the  pendulum  reached  out  towards  Vanya  and  pounded 
his  back  with  ponderous  strokes. 

Boris  Lvovitch  soon  roused  Vanya  from  his  stupor. 

"Vanya,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
reconciliation,  "I'll  come  back  here  in  a  half  hour,  per 
haps  you  will  know  your  lesson  by  then/' 

Indeed,  by  the  time  the  master  returned  Vanya  could 
say  in  half  tolerable  German  that  the  cheese  of  the  king 
was  pretty,  that  the  queen  had  fifteen  shirts  and  one  hat, 
that  the  queen's  daughter  had  seven  cats  and  four  dogs, 


VANYA'S  EDUCATION  33 

that  one  of  the  cats  swallowed  her  nightingale  which 
could  sing  better  than  the  rooster,  that  the  rooster  crowed 
at  dawn,  and  that  the  clock  struck  twelve  at  noon,  and 
that  the  left  window  of  the  soldier's  widow's  cottage  was 
small  and  would  not  let  the  sun  in,  because  the  sun  was 
on  the  other  side,  and  other  edifying  information  usually 
found  in  our  textbooks  for  studying  foreign  languages, 
The  master  was  pleased  with  Vanya  and  gave  him  a 
silver  pencil,  and  Vanya  was  pleased  with  the  pencil  and 
ran  home  to  show  it  to  everyone  and  to  tell  them  that  he 
had  got  it  for  knowing  his  German  lessons. 


CHAPTER  III 

VANYA   MEETS  WITH  A  TRAGIC  ACTRESS  IN  THE  WOOD 

RIVKA,  the  cook  of  the  Gombarovs,  was  a  good  soul, 
such  a  good  soul. 

A  woman  of  about  thirty,  tall  and  somewhat  gaunt, 
and  with  a  face  slightly  pock-marked,  she  was  not  much 
to  look  at,  poor  girl!  Not  at  the  first  glance,  anyway. 
She  had  weak  lungs.  But  she  had  a  stout  heart,  a  fine 
heart,  an  oven  of  fire — to  judge  by  the  constant  gleam 
in  her  eyes,  a  warm  soft  gleam  that  sometimes  burst  into 
little  flickering  flames  and  sometimes  into  quick  shooting 
sparks  as  when  in  the  dark  iron  strikes  stone.  But  that 
was  only  when  she  was  a  little  angry  at  one  thing  or  an 
other — for  she  would  never  tell  why.  Perhaps  she  her 
self  did  not  know  why  she  was  angry.  Perhaps  she  was 
not  really  angry  but  morose,  a  marked  soul  upon  whom 
the  afflictions  of  the  world  swooped  down  in  a  flock  to 
feed  out  of  hand  like  tame  pigeons.  And  there  were 
also  times  when  the  fire  of  her  heart  blazed  out  on  her 
tongue,  and  her  words  came  pouring  out  like  live  em 
bers,  and  her  long  thin  arms,  their  sleeves  rolled  up  above 
the  elbows,  moved  like  the  agitated  arms  of  a  mari 
onette,  an  individual  string  to  every  finger.  After  this 
transformation  the  flame  would  die  down,  she  would 
become  docile  again,  at  times  almost  lifeless,  ready  as 
it  were  to  be  put  back  like  a  marionette  into  a  box,  or 
was  it  into  a  coffin?  She  was  like  a  tragic  actress,  a 
Jewess  like  Rachel.  She  put  all  her  art  into  her  dishes 
and  transformed  the  simplest  dish  into  a  work  of  art. 

34 


VANYA  MEETS  WITH  A  TRAGIC  ACTRESS     35 

She  made  a  most  delicious  cold  beet-root  soup,  red  like 
a  rich  wine  and  covered  over  with  a  layer  of  thick  white 
cream,  and  the  most  delicious  cherry  dumplings,  through 
the  fine  skin  of  which  the  red-black  juice  oozed  out  as 
from  some  passionate  tropical  fruit,  and  other  things 
which  simply  begged  to  be  eaten — as  if  anyone  needed 
to  restrain  you  from  eating  them. 

Rivka  had  been  in  the  Gombarov  household  for  years 
and  she  was  kept  on  in  spite  of  her  eccentricities,  and 
she  had  two  in  particular.  One  was  to  drop  her  work 
in  a  sudden  whim,  even  in  the  midst  of  preparing  a  din 
ner,  and  to  go  off  to  Kieff  for  some  unknown  reason. 
The  other  was  to  keep  ready  a  jug  partly  filled  with 
soaked  sulphur  matches,  for  she  always  threatened  to 
commit  suicide  -by  swallowing  the  fluid :  she  had  done 
this  for  years  and  so  no  one  took  the  threat  seriously. 

Rivka  had  a  husband,  -the  village  cobbler  Yankel,  a 
man  of  good  heart  and  great  piety,  but  of  no  distinc 
tion.  His  boots  were  like  other  cobblers'  boots,  each 
boot  had  one  sole  and  one  heel,  and  a  nail  more  or  less, 
a  small  matter. 

A  morning  never  to  be  forgotten  by  Vanya  was  a 
morning  in  midsummer  when  he  and  Rivka  went  out  into 
the  woods  together.  They  walked  a  long  time,  such  a 
long  time,  until  they  came  to  a  small  glade  full  of  tall 
grass,  fragrant  and  delicious  to  lie  in.  Vanya  threw 
himself  on  the  grass  and  sprawled  out  on  his  back,  while 
Rivka  went  on  farther;  she  promised  to  come  back  for 
him. 

Vanya  lay  there  a  long  time  and  looked  at  the  patch 
of  blue  so  high  above  his  head,  a  patch  of  blue  which 
contracted  or  widened  with  every  slight  recurring  breeze; 
the  trees  around  him  were  so  tall  and  so  straight  and 
they  swayed  before  every  gust  like  the  taut  strings  of 
a  harp  touched  by  unseen  fingers,  and  their  rustling  mel 
ody  was  as  rhythmical  and  as  sad  and  as  monotonous 


36  THE  MASK 

as  an  old  folk  song.  Then  there  were  the  silences  be 
tween  the  rustlings.  They  were  like  the  silences  that 
Vanya  grew  to  love  later  of  the  calm  seas  in  the  sun, 
between  the  lappings  of  the  outgoing  tides  on 
slowly  receding  shores — gentle  intervals  between  ca 
resses  in  which  you  grew  sweetly  oblivious  or 
thoughtful.  And  Vanya  lay  there  and  absorbed  it  all, 
not  alone  with  his  mind  but  also  with  his  heart,  with. his 
whole  body,  something  vibrated  down  to  the  tips  of  his 
fingers,  something  like  the  sap  of  the  earth  poured  itself 
down  his  tired  little  legs.  He  became  reflective.  Was 
he  alive?  he  asked  himself,  or  was  he  a  part  of  the  earth, 
a  blade  of  grass?  a  tree?  a  beetle?  a  little  white  cloud 
like  the  one  that  just  made  its  appearance  above  his  head? 

But  Vanya  soon  roused  himself.  Or  rather  he  was 
soon  roused  by  something.  It  all  came  about  so  sud 
denly — the  disappearance  of  the  sun,  the  rolling  of  a 
black  curtain  across  the  sky,  the  agitation  of  the  trees. 
From  afar  came  a  rumble  of  thunder.  Vanya  stood  up 
and  looked  around  him.  Where  was  Rivka? 

"Rivka!    Rivka!"  he  called  frantically. 

"Riv-v-kah!  Riv-v-kah!"  came  the  answering  cry  of 
some  mocking  wood-demon,  whose  voice  became  a  pro 
longed  moan  in  the  wind. 

Vanya  was  frightened  and  began  to  run.  He  then 
realised  that  he  had  lost  his  way.  In  the  meantime  the 
sky  grew  still  blacker  and  the  wind  increased,  so  that  the 
tall  trees  no  longer  rocked  gently  but  swung  like  a  ship's 
masts  in  a  storm,  or  like  tall  thin  reeds  which  as  they 
swung  crossed  and  recrossed  one  another,  and  their  song 
was  no  longer  a  gentle  music  but  a  frenzied  tune  played 
by  a  witch  who  had  seized  the  harp's  strings  and  tore  at 
them  and  thumped  on  them  furiously.  Vanya  now  ran 
one  way,  now  another  and  only  stopped  now  and  then 
to  cry: 

"Rivka!     Rivka!" 


VANYA  MEETS  WITH  A  TRAGIC  ACTRESS     37 

Then  as  he  ran  he  came  upon  a  larger  glade  and  here 
he  saw  a  sight  which  for  a  moment  held  him  still. 

He  saw  Rivka  emerge  from  the  wood,  running,  her 
hair  all  dishevelled,  flying  before  the  wind,  like  the  tops 
of  the  trees,  or  as  it  were  with  them.  She  looked  very 
much  like  a  Fury  with  wriggly  serpent-like  hair  that  he 
had  once  seen  in  the  reproduction  of  an  old  Italian  pic 
ture;  a  Fury  with  gleaming  eyes  just  unloosened  from 
a  chain  and  herself  haunted  and  pursued  by  the  ele 
ments  filling  the  background  of  the  picture  with  black 
ness,  ill-omen  and  strife. 

But  all  this  he  thought  of  only  later.  At  that  moment 
he  was  very  much  frightened,  and  stood  still  in  his  fear. 
She  ran  past  him  without  seeming  to  see  him.  It  was 
then  that  he  recovered  himself  and  ran  after  her,  calling 
her  name: 

"Rivka!     Rivka!" 

The  storm  soon  passed,  and  as  he  reached  the  house 
at  last  the  sun  came  out,  nature  was  docile  again — like 
Rivka,  who  now  stood  quietly  on  the  back  porch  peeling 
potatoes  for  dinner. 

This  episode  sunk  deep  into  Vanya  and  stirred  within 
him  a  thought  as  yet  unborn.  That  picture  of  Rivka 
in  the  woods  was  to  become  for  him  more  and  more  an 
image  of  life  itself,  life  with  her  changing  moods,  life 
once  docile  now  run  amuck,  life  the  tragic  actress  singing 
her  mad  songs,  life  the  ailing  woman  exercising  her 
whims  upon  men — now  once  more  smiling  against  a  back 
ground  of  sunlight  and  softly  rustling  trees. 

It  was  hard  to  say  when  this  thought  first  came  into 
his  head.  Perhaps  it  came  much  later;  perhaps  it  was 
at  the  time  merely  sleeping  quietly,  gasping  in  its  half- 
conscious  travail — not  really  a  full-grown  thought  but 
a  thought  in  the  process  of  birth.  And  in  recalling  this 
episode  in  later  years  John  Gombarov  would  knit  his 
eyebrows  for  a  long  while  and  he  would  seem  to  turn 


38  THE  MASK 

his  eyes  to  an  inward  scrutiny  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
ferret  out  a  memory  from  one  particular  cell  of  his 
brain.  But  as  it  was  useless  he  would  give  up  the  en 
igma.  And  his  agitated  face  would  lose  its  agitation 
and  it  would  lapse  into  its  abstract  smile  as  if  a  mask 
of  dream  were  being  drawn  down  tightly  over  its  fea 
tures.  And  he  would  give  way  to  a  reflection : 

"All  life  is  said  to  be  a  dream,  but  what  is  more  like 
a  dream  than  one's  childhood  looked  back  upon?  Cer 
tain  things  have  happened,  and  you  have  a  feeling  that 
they  have  happened  in  a  perfect  sequence,  yet  on  waking 
you  remember  some  of  the  things,  but  the  sequence  of 
them  is  gone.  We  live  in  the  present,  but  all  dream  and 
all  beauty  seem  to  be  connected  with  the  past,  nearly  al 
ways  with  the  past.  Memories  are  like  myths,  and 
where  there  are  no  memories  there  is  no  beauty.  It  is 
the  same  with  peoples  as  with  individuals.  Walking 
past  old  places  and  living  near  them,  they  recall  their 
youth.  The  land  of  milk  and  honey,  Athenian  culture, 
the  Italian  Renaissance,  the  Elizabethan  Age — every 
thing  is  a  dream.  And  only  stray  dream  figures  walk 
among  the  ruins — Christ,  ^schylus,  Michelangelo, 
Shakespeare — and  then  there  are  the  ruins  themselves 
— which  remind  us  that  our  dream  has  been  once  a  real 
ity.  For  there  is  nothing  new,  there  is  only  eternal  re 
newal.  There  must  be  ghosts  at  our  elbows,  ancient  de 
mons  to  whisper  in  our  ears  the  one  secret  worth  know 
ing.  .  .  .  But  I  was  talking  about  Rivka  and  how  things 
get  mixed  up  in  a  dream.  Perhaps  there  really  was  no 
Rivka,  and  it  was  all  a  dream,  a  myth?  As  in  a  vision, 
I  see  her  walking  among  the  ruins  of  my  childhood,  a 
lonely  figure  smiling  a  little  with  her  mad  eyes,  in  whose 
gleam  I  seem  to  see  a  striving  to  recall  old  forgotten 
things,  things  perhaps  of  her  own  childhood,  her  child 
hood  passed  under  an  ancient  sun  on  the  Ganges  or  the 
Nile,  many  hundreds  of  years  ago." 


CHAPTER  IV 

STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY  ABOUT  A  CURIOUS 
SECT,    AND   REVEALS    HIS    OWN    CHARACTER 

THE  Gombarovs  were  "emancipated  Jews."  That  is 
to  say,  they  not  only  enjoyed  certain  privileges  of  the 
Russian  law  to  which  they  were  entitled  by  their  pro 
fessional  and  material  standing  but  they  had  a  relative 
disregard  of  certain  prohibitions  of  the  Jewish  law. 
They  had  small  religion,  but  the  little  they  had  was 
practical.  They  circumcised  all  their  males  because  they 
presumed  it  was  healthier,  they  ate  Kosher  meat  be 
cause  the  idea  of  "eating  blood"  was  abhorrent  to  them, 
and  they  did  not  eat  pig  because  that  animal  wallowed 
in  dung.  Indeed  they  looked  upon  Moses  not  as  upon 
a  divine  lawgiver  but  as  upon  a  kind  of  sanitary  inspec 
tor,  who  had  used  the  name  of  Jehovah  in  order  to  im 
press  upon  as  yet  a  young,  credulous,  malleable  people 
a  morality  of  gregariousness  and  a  sanitary  system,  the 
observance  of  which  entitled  the  observer  not  to  a  fu 
ture  life  but  to  a  long  life! — and  again  they  had  looked 
upon  him  as  upon  one  who,  had  he  lived  in  our  own  day, 
might  have  been  the  president  of  an  ethical  society,  a 
zealous  eugenist,  an  organiser  of  model  factories,  model 
soup  kitchens,  garden  cities,  an  inventor  of  improved 
drain  pipes,  a  suppressor  of  tramps,  hawkers  and  image- 
makers — artists!  The  Gombarovs  almost  completely 
ignored  the  hundreds  of  small  observances,  customs  and 
ceremonies  which  have  grown  up  around  the  Jewish  re 
ligion  since  the  dispersion,  like  barnacles  on  an  old  ship. 

39 


40  THE  MASK 

They  did  not  keep  separate  china  for  meat  and  milk 
dishes,  and  they  did  not  have  a  mezuzoth  *  on  the  door 
post  to  keep  away  the  evil  spirits,  and  they  visited  God's 
house  only  when  the  fancy  pleased  them,  as  they  would 
the  house  of  a  neighbour  with  whom  they  had  no  par 
ticular  quarrel.  They  had,  on  the  other  hand,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  a  religion  of  race,  that  pride  of  survival 
of  a  race  which  has  suffered  through  many  generations 
and  has  outlived  its  tormentors — at  any  rate,  God  has 
kept  His  promise,  such  as  it  was,  and  has  given  His  peo 
ple  a  long  life  if  a  miserable  one,  and  thus  also  the 
idea  of  long  life  broke  its  own  bounds  and  ceased  being 
in  that  sense  a  thing  material  and  virtuous,  the  posses 
sion  of  an  individual,  and  became  rather  a  mystic  force, 
a  living  fluid  running  down  the  spine  of  the  race,  giving 
strength  to  stooped  backs  and  to  narrow  chests ;  in  short, 
making  of  this  race  a  people  whose  peculiarity  was  that 
their  necks  grew  stiffer  in  proportion  as  their  chests  grew 
narrower. 

This  subject  of  race  gave  rise  to  many  discussions  in 
the  house  especially  when  Professor  Malinov — fami 
liarly  Dmitry  Alekseyevitch — came  for  dinner.  Malinov 
was  a  celebrated  young  chemist  who  enjoyed  talking  on 
his  subject  with  the  elder  Gombarov,  who  was  making 
some  experiments  at  the  time.  But  the  conversations 
nearly  always  drifted  to  other  subjects.  Sometimes 
Gombarov  told  a  story.  And  Vanya  sometimes  sat  there 
very  quietly  and  listened. 

"You  often  astonish  me,"  said  Malinov  one  day  at 
the  conclusion  of  a  scientific  discussion.  "Here  you  are, 
a  man  without  any  training  in  a  technical  school  or  uni 
versity,  and  here  am  I,  a  man  with  all  the  advantages 
modern  education  can  give  and  have  two  or  three  de 
grees  and  two  or  three  medals,  and  yet  I  never  come  to 
you  but  you  propound  to  me  some  original  and  profound 

*  Mezuzoth=Sacred  Hebrew  texts  on  parchment  encased  in  zinc. 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY    41 

problem  in  a  subject  in  which  I  am  presumed  to  be  some 
thing  of  an  authority.  If  you  were  not  a  Jew  you  would 
be  a  celebrated  man  in  Russia.  I  dare  say  your  own  pe 
culiar  Oriental  imagination  is  helpful  even  in  chemistry. 
As  a  scientist  I  can  have  no  prejudice  against  Jews, 
indeed  as  a  scientist  I  can  only  have  a  predilection  for 
them.  I  sometimes  wish  they  were  amalgamated  with 
the  Russians.  Chemically  speaking,  a  drop  of  Jewish 
blood  goes  a  long  way.  Ethically  speaking,  however,  our 
Russian,  or  shall  I  say  our  Christian  imagination  is  su 
perior  to  the  Jewish,  in  the  ratio  that  the  quality  of 
mercy  is  a  more  imaginative  quality  than  justice,  which 
is  a  purely  logical  quality.  It  was  a  materialist  who 
said  'an  eye  for  an  eye'  and  'a  tooth  for  a  tooth' ;  it  was 
a  poet  who  said,  'Except  ye  be  converted,  and  become  as 
little  children,  ye  shall  not  enter  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.'  The  austere  logic  of  the  Jewish  mind  has  in 
vented,  retribution  and  compensation,  short  life  and  long 
life;  you  promise  so  little ;  there  is  not  a  single  mention  of 
future  life  in  your  Old  Testament;  as  against  this  the 
Christian  mind  has  devised  punishment  and  reward,  hell 
and  heaven,  but  this  Christian  imagination  reaches  its 
crescendo  in  offering  special  inducements  to  the  sinner 
who  has  repented.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  you  do  make  a  great  deal  of  that  one  lost  sheep," 
interrupted  Gombarov,  with  a  touch  of  irony  in  his  voice, 
"perhaps  it  is  for  that  reason  that  it  prefers  to  stay 
lost.  And  it's  always  the  prodigal  son  who  gets  the 
fatted  calf.  As  for  promises  of  future  life,  one  might 
as  well  become  a  Turk.  A  good  Turk,  as  we  all  know, 
is  promised  sixty-four  beautiful  young  girls,  a  precise 
and  definite  promise,  but  we  have  never  been  told  what 
the  Christian  heaven  is  like  and  how  good  Christians 
enjoy  themselves." 

Professor  Malinov  seemed  to  enjoy  Gombarov's  out 
burst.  He  grew  paradoxical : 


42  THE  MASK 

"What  I  wanted  to  lead  up  to  was  that  if  you  Jews 
had  a  faith  like  ours  you  might  enjoy  your  martyrdom, 
you  would  have  the  supreme  consolation  of  believing 
yourselves  destined  for  heaven  and  your  tormentors 
doomed  to  eternal  punishment" 

Gombarov  laughed  and  said: 

"The  last  part  of  this  consolation  might  be  denied  us 
by  the  repentant  sinner  clause.  As  you  must  know,  a 
man  usually  repents  on  "his  death-bed.  So  that  the  sin 
ner  gets  both,  he  not  only  enjoys  his  sin  but  there  is  such 
a  rejoicing  in  heaven  over  his  coming  into  the  fold  that 
he  gets  all  the  best  things  there,  too." 

"That  only  proves  my  point,"  said  Malinov.  "You 
Jews  are  such  a  sad,  solemn  people  that  you  get  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  You  are  so  confoundedly  logical 
and  have  such  a  keen  sense  of  justice — or  shall  I  say 
injustice  ? — that  you  are  always  resentful,  always  brood 
ing  about  your  wrongs.  One  can  see  it  in  your  eyes, 
which  are  even  sadder  than  Russian  eyes.  No  matter 
how  much  a  Jew  may  look  unlike  a  Jew  I  can  always  tell 
a  Jew  by  his  eyes." 

"Goluth  eyes,"  said  Gombarov. 

"What  is  that?" 

"Eyes  of  exile.  They  are  the  sort  of  eyes  with  which 
the  first  Jewish  captive  must  have  beheld  Rome.  It  was 
in  Rome  that  the  Jews  were  walled  in  within  the  first 
ghetto  and  it  was  there  that  they  first  assumed  the  yellow 
gaberdine  and  the  cowering  stoop  before  the  'Hep !  Hep ! 
Hep!'  of  the  Roman.  It  was  even  worse  in  Christian 
Rome  than  in  pagan  Rome.  After  all,  what  do  you  ex 
pect?  For  it  is  truly  said  that  every  country  has  the 
Jews  it  deserves.  There  is  Spain.  Spain  was  a  great 
country  and  the  Jews  were  a  great  happy  people  there 
until  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  and  the  Inquisition  forced 
them  into  exile  again.  By  one  of  those  strange  coinci 
dences  in  the  same  year  that  Abarbanel,  an  eighty-year 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY     43 

old  man,  the  Jewish  Minister  of  Finance,  left  Spain  at 
the  head  of  eighty  thousand  exiles,  Columbus  discovered 
America,  and  oddly  enough  there  is  said  to  have  been  a 
Jewish  sailor  with  the  expedition — for  there  is  an  adage 
among  us  Jews  that  God  provides  a  remedy  at  the  very 
time  that  he  inflicts  the  disease.  Whether  that  drop  of 
Jewish  blood  that  you  speak  of  acts  as  a  tonic  or  a  taint 
— and  most  of  you  think  it  a  taint — depends  upon  your 
selves.  The  Jews  are  in  fact  like  a  violin,  whose  tune 
is  sad  or  gay,  saintly  or  diabolic,  according  to  the  player. 
You  spit  at  a  man  and  expect  a  'Thank  you/  you  are 
astonished  when  instead  of  blessing  you  he  curses  you 
— usually  under  his  breath,  because  with  your  intensive 
justice  of  heaven  and  hell  you  are  not  content  with  con 
demning  him  to  an  eternal  cauldron  of  hot  tar  in  after 
life,  but  also  insist  upon  giving  him  a  foretaste  of  it  in 
this  life.  After  all,  concrete  justice  is  better  than  ab 
stract  mercy.  So  do  not  be  astonished  that  a  Jew  has 
to  instruct  his  boy :  'Remember  that  you  are  not  only  a 
man,  but  also  a  Jew/  by  which  he  means  that  he  must 
bear  a  double  burden,  must  gird  himself  to  win  success 
under  a  handicap." 

"That  seems  only  fair/'  laughed  Malinov,  "if  it  was 
not  for  that  handicap  I  might  be  out  of  a  job." 

"Have  you  heard  of  the  Hassidim  ?"  asked  Gombarov 
and,  receiving  a  nod  in  the  negative,  went  on : 

"The  Hassidim  are  a  Jewish  sect,  remnants  of  which 
are  still  scattered  through  Russian  Poland  and  Galicia. 
The  remarkable  thing  about  them  is  that  they  are  not 
only  the  most  religious  of  all  Jews  but  also  the  most  joy 
ous.  You  would  call  them  Dionysians,  and  yet  they  are 
quite  like  children,  if  elder  people  can  ever  be  like  chil 
dren.  They  consider  joy  as  a  kind  of  duty  and  the  man 
who  does  not  enjoy  life  as  a  kind  of  sinner.  Although 
they  are  very  pious  and  spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in 
prayer  yet  they  are  fine  scholars  and  devote  many  hours 


44  THE  MASK 

to  the  study  of  their  own  peculiar  theology,  full  of 
strange  problems  and  enigmas  and  not  a  few  jests,  some 
of  them  at  God's  expense — for  they  well  argue  that  if  a 
man  have  a  sense  of  humour  how  much  more  God,  who 
has  made  man  in  His  own  image  and  embodies  all  our 
human  virtues  in  divine  perfection,  and  who,  in  His  in 
finite  mercy,  would  not  only  forgive  but  even  enjoy  a 
jest  at  His  own  expense,  provided  it  were  a  good  one. 
With  them  theology  is  not  theology  but  a  fine  art,  a  thing 
complex  with  nuances  and  worth  arguing  out  in  a  chain 
of  ifs  and  enigmas  as  profoundly  logical  as  a  problem 
in  Euclid  or  a  Socratic  dialogue.  But  they  are  not  all 
solemn,  but  are  more  like  children  playing  at  a  game, 
and  he  is  most  learned  who*  can  propound  most  enigmas. 
And  a  distinguished  scholar  among  them,  be  he  young 
or  old,  is  much  honoured,  and  as  such  a  person  is  com 
pelled  to  spend  much  time  over  his  old  Hebrew  books 
the  community  looks  with  a  lenient  eye  upon  his  foibles 
and  comparative  neglect  of  family  responsibilities,  which 
as  you  may  guess  makes  a  woman's  lot  rather  hard — 
for  among  Hassidim  I  ought  to  tell  you  a  man  is  a  man 
at  fourteen,  and  it  is  the  man  unmarried,  and  therefore 
not  the  father,  who  is  likened  to  a  murderer,  as  one  who 
has  foregone  and  killed  the  children  he  might  have  be 
gotten.  That  will  give  you  an  idea  of  their  reductio  ad 
absurdum  reasoning.  At  the  same  time  it  has  its  ad 
vantages,  in  this  case  affirmation  of  life,  and  I  may  tell 
you  that  not  a  little  of  their  time  is  given  up  to  revels, 
to  rejoicing,  to  wine  drinking  and  to  dancing.  You  have 
spoken  of  the  Jews  as  a  sad  people,  and  I  have  told  you 
about  the  Hassidim  to  show  the  capacity  of  the  Jews 
for  joy.  No  one  can  really  know  the  Jews  who  does 
not  know  the  Hassidim.  I  am  the  son  of  a  Hassid  my 
self  and  I  know." 

Then  Gombarov  told  a  story: 

"When  I  grew  to  manhood — that  is  when  I  reached 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY     45 

my  fourteenth  year — I  decided  that  I  wanted  to  see  some 
thing  of  the  world.  So  one  day,  saying  nothing  to  any 
one,  I  set  out  with  my  little  bundle,  which  contained  in 
addition  to  a  pair  of  socks  and  a  shirt,  a  prayer  book,  a 
commentary  on  the  Talmud,  a  book  on  mathematics,  a 
praying  shawl  and  phylacteries,  and  two  crusts  of  bread 
covered  with  dripping.  I  had  also  in  a  knot  of  my  ban 
danna  handkerchief  fifty  copecks  in  small  change,  which 
I  extracted  from  my  mother's  meagre  purse,  not  with 
out  some  compunction,  but  I  consoled  myself  by  rea 
soning  out  that,  after  all,  the  money  saved  by  my  absence 
— for  I  consumed  bread  without  earning  it — would  in 
the  long  run  more  than  compensate  for  what  I  had  taken, 
a  munificent  sum  let  me  tell  you  in  the  eyes  of  such  poor 
people  as  my  parents. 

"I  started  out  at  dawn  and  walked  nearly  all  day, 
taking  fields  and  by-roads  and  skirting  all  the  near  vil 
lages,  for  I  was  known  for  miles  around  as  a  young 
scholar  and  I  did  not  wish  to  be  seen.  It  was  dark  by 
the  time  I  got  to  a  little  village,  which  I  did  not  know 
and  which  did  not  know  me.  I  went  straight  to  the  lit 
tle  synagogue,  and  a  synagogue,  unlike  a  Christian 
church  house  or  a  synagogue  of  Reformed  Jews,  is  al 
ways  open.  It  is  indeed  among  such  people  as  the  Has- 
sidim  not  only  a  house  of  worship  but  a  university.  The 
part  where  the  services  were  held  was  still  dark,  but 
there  was  another  door  near  the  entrance,  a  ray  of  light 
poured  through  the  big  keyhole,  and  I  could  hear  voices 
on  the  other  side  of  the  door.  Without  knocking  I 
boldly  opened  the  door,  and  found  myself  in  a  large 
dingy  room,  such  as  usually  is  attached  to  every  syna 
gogue.  The  furniture  consisted  only  of  two  long  un- 
painted  tables  and  benches.  Books  of  all  sizes,  mostly 
in  dark  brown  bindings  with  gilt  titles  and  decorations, 
covered  one  wall.  There  were  several  bronze  candle 
sticks  on  one  table  and  the  candles  were  lit.  Three 


46  THE  MASK 

tomes  lay  open  on  the  table  and  three  middle-aged  Jews 
in  black  velvet  skull  caps  sat  poring  over  them,  their  long 
beards  almost  brushing  the  pages,  as  they  swayed  their 
bodies  from  side  to  side.  One  of  them  was  carrying  on 
an  argument  in  the  customary  sing-song  voice,  which  al 
ways  rose  at  the  'if  and  fell  at  the  'ergo/  the  same  as 
the  long  rigidly  pointed  thumb  of  his  right  hand,  which 
cut  a  curve  from  the  shoulder,  answering  the  curve  in 
the  voice.  They  hardly  noticed  me  as  I  entered  and 
even  after  I  had  taken  down  a  tome  from  the  shelves  and 
sat  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  But  I  listened 
rather  than  read,  and  waited  patiently  for  the  man  to 
end.  No  sooner  did  the  man  end  his  sing-song  than 
another  was  ready  to  take  it  up.  He  had  already  opened 
his  mouth  and  lifted  his  thumb  in  order  to  begin  but  I, 
waiting  for  this  chance,  intercepted  him  by  greeting  the 
three  of  them. 

"  'Sholem  aleikhem/  said  I,  which  is  our  usual  form 
of  greeting  and  means,  Teace  be  to  you.' 

"  'Aleikhem  sholem,'  replied  he  who  had  just  finished 
speaking. 

"But  the  man  who  was  just  about  to  begin  was  an 
noyed  at  the  interruption  and  said  to  me: 

"  'Now  run  away,  little  boy,  and  don't  interrupt  your 
elders,  your  mother  is  looking  for  you  somewhere,  she 
has  just  uncovered  her  breast  to  give  you  suck.' 

"I  was  indeed  quite  small,  and  looked  even  younger 
than  my  young  years,  but  I  was  a  sharp  blade  in  my  way 
and  had  had  experience  with  men  of  that  type.  More 
over,  I  must  have  been  rather  audacious.  And  so  I 
turned  to  the  man  who  had  spoken  and  said  to  him : 

"  'If  the  milk  in  my  mother's  withered  breast  has 
grown  as  thin  as  the  wit  on  your  evil  tongue  then  in 
deed  my  place  is  neither  here  nor  there,  and  I  might  as 
well  betake  myself  to  a  place  where  wisdom  flows  like  a 
rich  milk  from  a  healthy  young  mother's  breast  and 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY-    47 

where  men's  tongues  do  not  bark  from  their  mouths  like 
chained  dogs  from  their  kennels/ 

"  'He's  quite  a  lamdun' — that  is  a  scholar — said  the 
third  man,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  smiling. 

"  'Come  here,  young  azus  ponim,' — that  is  brazen  face 
-—'and  we'll  try  you  out  on  some  tricks,'  said  the  man  to 
whom  I  addressed  my  remarks,  but  who  did  not  seem 
offended  at  all.  'Now  tell  us  about  the  book  that  God 
looked  into  when  he  created  the  world.' 

"  'That  book  was  written  by  Satan,'  answered  I. 

"  'By  Satan  ?  How  came  that  book  to  be  written  by 
Satan?' 

"  'It  happened  in  this  way.  In  the  beginning  there 
were  only  God  and  Satan.  God  was  good  and  wise  and 
Satan  was  evil  and  subtle  and  hid  his  evil  by  his  subtlety. 
Satan  was  eloquent  and  knew  how  to  use  words,  so  he 
wrote  a  book  full  of  subtlety,  a  book  containing  a  plan 
of  the  world,  and  showed  it  to  God.  God  read  the  book 
and  thought  it  very  beautiful,  but  He  objected  to  cer 
tain  passages,  which  He  thought  were  immoral,  and  so 
He  expurgated  them  and  suggested  other  changes  which 
Satan  agreed  to  quite  readily.  For  Satan  knew  well 
the  evil  masked  by  his  beautiful  words.  Then  God 
created  the  world.  And  He  must  have  recognised  that 
there  was  something  wrong  with  it  on  the  very  first 
day  .  .  .' 

"  'God  can  do  no  wrong,'  interrupted  one  of  my  listen 
ers. 

"  'I  am  coming  to  that.  .  .  .  For  it  is  said  in  our 
Torah  that  "God  saw  the  light,  that  it  was  good:  and 
God  divided  the  light  from  the  darkness."  You  will 
note  that  God  thinks  the  light  good,  and  that  nothing  is 
said  about  the  darkness  except  that  it  was  divided  from 
the  light,  even  as  evil  is  divided  from  good.  Again, 
Satan  flattered  God  when  he  suggested  that  God  make 
man  in  His  own  image,  but  when  God  made  Adam  and 


48  THE  MASK 

gave  him  Eve  and  put  them  both  in  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
Satan  sent  a  serpent  to  tempt  them  to  eat  the  fruit  of 
the  tree  of  good  and  evil.  You  must  mark  this:  Why 
did  Satan  choose  this  tree  and  not  the  tree  of  life?  And 
why  did  God  Himself  bar  their  way  afterward  to  the 
tree  of  life?  It  is  very  clear:  Both  God  and  Satan 
thought  that  Adam  was  now  half  like  themselves,  and 
that  if  he  ate  of  the  tree  of  life,  he  would  be  as  power 
ful  as  one  or  the  other,  according  to  whether  the  good 
or  the  evil  prevailed.  God  saw  that,  for  His  own  sake, 
it  was  good  for  man  to  contend  with  evil,  and  Satan 
saw  that  it  profited  him  that  man  should  contend  with 
good,  for  Satan's  joy  is  not  in  evil  itself  but  in  the  tempt 
ing  of  man  away  from  good,  and  a  deep-dyed  sinner  is 
like  a  sheep  already  in  the  fold.  It  is  always  the  stray 
sheep  that  interests  either  God  or  Satan.  Neither  God 
nor  Satan  could  do  anything  with  anyone  who  had  eter 
nal  life.  And  that  is  why  there  is  eternal  contention 
between  light  and  darkness,  good  and  evil,  and  man  is 
torn  between  God  and  Satan/ 

'This  started  a  whole  chain  of  argument,  and  I  shall 
not  go  into  the  details  of  it,  but  go  on  with  my  story. 
After  the  argument  I  went  in  with  them  to  the  evening 
service,  and  at  the  end  of  it  one  of  my  new  acquaintances 
asked  me  if  I  knew  anyone  in  the  village,  and  receiving 
a  negative  answer  he  invited  me  to  his  house  for  dinner 
and  to  a  night's  lodging.  'Indeed/  he  added,  'you  can 
not  do  better  than  remain  in  our  village,  there  is  always 
room  for  a  lamdunf 

"And  in  this  manner  I  went  from  village  to  village, 
from  small  town  to  small  town,  living  on  my  wits,  and 
being  asked  to  stay  everywhere  for  the  rest  of  my  days, 
so  much  is  a  scholar  honoured  among  my  people.  But 
my  supreme  adventure  happened  in  a  little  Hassidic 
community  not  far  from  Plotsk.  You  will  think  I 
dreamt  it  so  incredible  will  it  sound  to  you. 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY     49 

"One  early  afternoon  I  arrived  with  my  little  bundle 
at  a  little  village,  and  as  usual  I  was  making  my  way 
toward  the  synagogue.  I  was  already  within  sight  of 
the  building,  which  I  recognised  because  of  the  small 
groups  of  the  capoted  Jews  who  stood  talking  and  ges 
ticulating  at  the  door.  I  had  not  yet  got  there  when 
a  middle-aged  woman,  rather  short  and  stout,  a  shawl 
over  her  head,  a  kind  of  rope-girdle  across  her  smock 
to  bear  false  witness  to  a  waist-line,  and  looking  alto 
gether  like  a  sack  of  potatoes  rather  than  a  human  being, 
limped  over  toward  me  and,  to  my  astonishment,  fell 
upon  my  neck,  with  the  words : 

"  'Oh  Mott'l,  my  long-lost  Mott'l,  so  you  have  come 
back  to  me !' 

"The  shock  was  too  great  for  me  and  her  short  thick 
arms,  more  like  a  baby's  legs  in  shape  than  a  woman's 
arms,  clung  round  my  neck  and  almost  stifled  me,  but 
at  last  I  managed  to  gasp  out: 

"  'Woman,  I'm  neither  Mott'l  nor  lost,  and  as  I  have 
never  seen  you  before  I  cannot  be  coming  back  to  you/ 

"  'Oh  Mott'l,  oh  you  shameless  young  man/  she  cried, 
still  holding  on  to  me  with  all  her  might,  'don't  you  know 
your  own  mother,  Sossya,  who  fed  you  at  her  own 
breast,  gave  you  her  blood,  underslept  herself  whole 
nights,  famished  herself,  starved  herself,  that  you,  my 
own  pretty  little  finger,  might  .  .  / 

"  'Woman/  I  cut  her  short, — she  still  held  on  grimly 
to  my  coat,  though  she  released  my  neck — 'woman/  I 
said,  'my  name  is  not  Mott'l  but  Shimoyn,  Shimoyn  ben 
Naphtali/ — that  is  Semyon  son  of  Naphtali — for  we 
still  use  among  ourselves  the  old  Biblical  patronymic — • 
'and  my  mother's  name/  I  went  on,  'is  not  Sossya  but 
Dvossya;  as  for  your  starving  yourself — I  may  tell  you 
that  if  my  mother,  God's  blessings  upon  her,  were  half 
as  stout  as  you,  she  would  still  be  twice  as  big  as  she 
is.  Now  let  me  go  my  way/ 


50  THE  MASK 

"In  the  meantime  a  crowd  had  gathered,  word  was 
passed  round  that  the  good  widow  Sossya's  long-lost  son 
Mott'l,  who  had  disappeared  three  years  ago  when  they 
lived  in  another  village  and  the  lamdun  Shloimo,  his 
father — blessed  be  his  memory — was  yet  alive,  had  come 
back,  and  the  crowd  which  looked  upon  this  return  as  a 
miracle  from  God  was  not  to  be  robbed  of  its  pleas 
ure  and  excitedly  murmured  among  themselves  and 
urged  me  not  to  be  an  asus  ponim — a  brazen- face — and 
to  be  a  dutiful  son.  But  as  I  still  went  on  arguing  and 
protesting,  two  young  and  brawny,  red-cheeked  Hassi- 
dim  stepped  out  of  the  crowd  and  jostled  me  by  my 
small  shoulders  in  the  direction  of  the  widow's  house, 
the  widow  limping  along,  followed  by  the  excited  crowd. 
I  walked  on  timidly,  having  decided  that  it  was  more 
politic  for  the  moment  to  play  the  part  of  Mott'l,  widow 
Sossya's  long-lost  son.  At  the  door  of  the  widow's 
house  I  was  met  by  three  little  brats,  presumably  my 
newly-found  brothers  and  sisters,  who,  on  seeing  their 
mother  and  the  strange  procession,  began  to  screech  and 
to  whimper  as  if  Noah's  Deluge  were  upon  them. 

1  'Oh  my  dear  little  lambkins,  my  sweet  little  birdies/ 
she  cried,  trying  to  calm  them,  'greet  your  little  brother 
Mottele.' 

"But  upon  seeing  me  they  grew  only  more  terrified, 
and  they  set  up  a  yell,  such  as  you  would  not  expect 
to  hear  before  Judgment  Day.  By  this  time,  however, 
I  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  adventure,  and  decided  that 
I  would  humour  my  captors  until  such  a  time  as  I  could 
get  away.  And  so,  taking  out  of  my  pocket  a  small  bag 
of  raisins,  with  which  I  had  luckily  provided  myself,  I 
gave  a  small  handful  to  each.  The  effect  was  wonder 
ful  and  instantaneous.  They  stopped  at  once,  almost 
in  the  middle  of  their  cry,  as  if  their  throat  machinery 
had  suddenly  slipped  a  cog.  The  widow  was  delighted, 
the  crowd  was  profoundly  impressed  as  if  I  had  per- 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY     51 

formed  a  miracle.  I  made  a  grave  face  and  laughed  in 
wardly.  In  a  single  day  I  had  found  a  mother  and 
three  little  brothers  and  sisters.  How  would  it  all  end? 
Then  a  terrifying  thought  came  to  me:  perhaps  I  had 
even  a  young  wife  living  there,  an  aguno,  for  that  is  our 
special  name  for  a  wife  who  has  been  deserted  by  her 
husband.  But  immediately  afterward  I  reflected  that 
if  I  had  I  should  have  heard  of  it  earlier.  In  any  case, 
I  decided  that  I  would  see  the  thing  through.  Besides, 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done. 

"Seeing  me  in  acquiescent  mood  the  crowd  departed, 
and  I  was  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  widow  and  her  little 
brats.  After  a  repast  I  was  visited  by  a  deputation  of 
three,  who  took  me  to  the  rabbi's  house,  where  I  was 
questioned  about  the  Torah  and  the  Talmud  and  so  dis 
tinguished  myself  that  I  won  the  praise  of  my  elders. 
I  was  particularly  inspired  on  the  subject  of  the  Sam- 
batyon  River,  a  river  not  on  any  map,  and  the  peculiar 
ity  of  which  is  that  it  ceases  to  flow  on  the  Sabbath, 
where  for  it  is  highly  regarded  by  all  pious  Jews. 

"  'You  are  a  worthy  son  of  Shloimo  the  lamdun'  said 
the  rabbi. 

"  'A  true  son  of  Shloimo  the  lamdun,'  chimed  in  a 
second  Jew. 

"  'Only  Shloimo  himself  could  have  expounded  the 
subject  in  so  worthy  a  manner,'  added  a  third. 

"In  the  meantime,  as  I  learned  later,  the  women  of 
the  village  were  not  idle.  Everywhere  they  were  cook 
ing  and  baking  things  for  the  evening  feast  to  be  held  at 
the  rabbi's  house  to  celebrate  my  return,  all  the  more 
since  I  was  such  a  lamdun. 

"I  was  used  to  Hassidic  feasts,  yet  never  in  my  life, 
before  or  since  then,  have  I  witnessed  such  a  lavish  and 
joyous  feast  as  at  the  rabbi's  house  that  night.  The 
long  table  under  the  low  ceiling  was  spread  with  a  be- 
flowered  orange-red  tablecloth,  tasselled  at  the  corners, 


52  THE  MASK 

and  all  sorts  of  good  things,  mostly  of  a  spicy  sort,  cov 
ered  it,  for  the  Jews  love  spices.  There  were  many 
original  dishes  of  which  I  cannot  now  remember  the 
names.  There  were  several  cut-glass  decanters  filled 
with  wine.  There  were  three  candelabra,  one  at  each 
end  of  the  table  and  one  in  the  middle,  each  containing 
seven  candles.  There  were  two  musicians,  one  with  a 
fiddle,  the  other  with  an  accordeon,  and  during  dinner 
they  rested  their  instruments  upon  two  small  kegs  of 
wine,  which  stood  up  on  two  boxes.  The  women  had 
put  on  their  best  clothes  and  had  on  spangles  and  beads 
and  earrings,  the  elder  ones  had  bright  silk  kerchiefs 
on  their  heads.  The  men  and  the  women  were  mostly 
divided  into  separate  groups.  Here  there  was  a  cackle 
as  of  hens,  there  a  droning  hum  as  of  bees.  The  rabbi 
himself  sat  in  a  large  arm  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table 
propped  up  on  several  pillows.  He  had  his  orange-col 
oured  handkerchief  tied  round  his  waist. 

"The  feast  was  begun  by  the  rabbi  pronouncing  the 
customary  blessing  over  the  wine.  Then  the  wit  and 
entertainer  of  the  village,  a  very  short,  almost  dwarf- 
like  man,  but  very  broad  across  the  shoulders,  with  a  big 
ruddy  face  and  a  still  redder  nose,  the  bulb  of  which  at 
tracted  the  candlelight,  and  with  a  long  besom-like  beard 
which  reached  almost  to  his  navel,  stood  up  and  chanted 
a  mock  prayer,  a  parody  of  a  well-known  Jewish  prayer, 
every  line  of  which  begins  with  an  'If  and  ends  with 
the  phrase :  'even  that  were  enough/ 

"  'Oh  Lord,  our  God,  if  Thou  hadst  done  no  more 
than  bring  us  back  our  long-lost  Mottele,  son  of  Shloimo 
the  lamdun,  if  Thou  hadst  done  no  more  than  that,  even 
that  were  enough!' 

"As  the  evening  went  on  and  they  drank  more  wine, 
they  became  more  and  more  hilarious.  Then  the  fiddle 
began  to  play,  a  half -sad,  half-joyous  dance  tune,  and 
the  women  and  the  girls,  lifting  their  skirts  slightly  in 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY    53 

front  with  both  their  hands,  began  to-  dance.  Then  the 
old  bearded  men  and  the  rabbi  himself  and  the  young 
boys  got  up  from  the  table  and,  forming  little  groups, 
put  one  hand  on  each  other's  shoulder,  and  lifting  up  the 
other  went  round  and  round,  stamping  their  feet  and 
singing.  The  wit  was  a  wonderful  little  man.  Some 
times  he  would  be  joined  in  some  simple  little  tune  like : 

Oi,  oi,  Yidele, 
Oi,  oi,  Yidele, 
Tam-tam-tam-tam, 
Tam-di-di-tam-tam.  .  .  . 

sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  an  awed  circle,  he  would  sing 
a  strange  song  without  words.  I  remember  one  particu 
larly,  in  which  he  did  not  seem  like  a  man  at  all,  but  like 
a  demon.  His  red  face  was  redder  than  ever,  every  line 
in  it  was  intoxicated,  distorted  with  demoniac  joy,  his 
eyes  had  an  extraordinary  gleam,  he  half  lifted  one  arm 
and  one  leg  of  his  squat  figure,  and  pursed  up  his  lips 
into  a  kind  of  a  circle,  out  of  which  issued  sounds  as  of 
the  wind  blowing,  the  wind  rising  and  dying  down,  the 
wind  moaning  in  despair  and  the  wind  crying  with  joy, 
and  it  was  all  the  more  wonderful  because  all  these 
sounds  were  organised  into  a  dance  melody,  which  he 
danced  by  turning  his  figure  slowly  from  side  to  side  in  a 
semi-circle,  now  uplifting  one  arm  and  one  leg  now  the 
other. 

"At  intervals  the  music  and  the  songs  would  cease  and 
the  crowd  would  return  to  the  table  to  eat  and  to  drink 
and  to  make  jests.  I  was  the  victim  of  quite  a  number 
of  these,  one  of  which  might  have  proved  embarrassing 
to  me  if  I  were  not  half-intoxicated  myself.  The  subject 
of  my  return  was  being  discussed  jovially,  when  one 
longbeard  remarked : 

'  'If  you  waited  until  Messiah  came' — this  ironical 
expression  has  crept  into  our  speech  because  we  still 


54  THE  MASK 

expect  our  own  true  Messiah  and  we  don't  expect  him 
very  soon — 'if  you  waited  until  Messiah  came',  repeated 
the  speaker,  'you  would  not  find  another  such  asus  ponitn 
as  our  Mottele,  only  our  Mottele  could  have  denied  his 
own  mother,  if  he  were  not  such  a  lamdun  .  .  .' 

"  'You  blasphemer,'  I  said  quick  as  a  shot,  'you've  just 
called  Messiah  an  azus  ponini/ 

"Everyone  laughed,  but  my  triumph  was  short,  for  my 
accuser  went  on : 

'  'But  it  was  no  use  your  denying,  Mottele,  for  I  was 
present  at  your  circumcision,  and  I  know  that  you  have 
a  peculiarity  .  .  .  ' 

"A  shout  of  laughter  went  up.    Someone  cried : 

"  'Undress  him !    Let  us  see !' 

"The  women  were  quickly  bundled  out  of  the  room. 
I  could  hear  their  chuckles  on  the  other  side  of  the  door. 
Several  strong  hands  seized  me.  My  resistance  was 
useless.  I  was  undressed  and  examined.  My  peculiarity 
was  a  common  one,  and  they  made  much  of  it;  in  any 
case,  they  did  not  need  much  convincing  that  I  was  the 
real  Mott'l.  Then,  having  finished  the  examination,  they 
quite  suddenly  began  to  sing  and  to  dance  and  whirled  me 
along  with  them  just  as  I  was.  When  they  had  exhausted 
themselves  they  resumed  their  places  at  the  table  and  as 
I  was  getting  into  my  clothes  again  I  could  hear  someone 
saying : 

'  Tt  is  true,  Mottele  has  a  peculiarity,  but  my  daughter 
Serele  has  also*  one,  you  needn't  ask  me  what  it  is  ...  * 
'That  sounds  like  a  match/  said  the  rabbi. 

"  'I  should  be  very  proud  to  give  my  daughter  to  such 
a  lamdun  as  Mott'l.  She  is  the  most  beautiful  girl  in 
our  village/ 

"  'Bring  Serele  in,'  someone  shouted. 

"The  door  was  then  opened  and  the  women  rushed  in 
laughing.  Serele  was  quickly  singled  out  and  I  was 
introduced  to  her  as  her  intended  husband.  The  room 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY     55 

was  in  an  uproar.  She  was  an  extremely  pretty  girl  with 
cheeks  like  apples  and  with  wonderful  black  hair;  she  was 
worth  marrying  for  her  hair  alone.  But  as,  with  em 
barrassment,  I  was  contemplating  her  cheeks  and  her 
hair,  the  horrible  thought  quite  suddenly  struck  me :  her 
beautiful  hair  would  be  cut  off  after  marriage  and  it 
would  be  replaced  with  a  wig,  for  such  is  the  custom 
among  this  people.  As  my  sudden  consternation  revealed 
itself  for  a  moment  on  my  face,  my  intended  father-in- 
law  turned  to  me  and  asked : 

"  'What  is  the  matter?    Is  the  bride  too  beautiful?' 
"  'Only  don't  forget,  Mottele,  to  put  your  right  foot 
on  her  left  one  when  you  are  under  the  canopy,  if  you 
want  to  be  master  of  your  own  house/  whispered  the 
widow  Sossya,  my  newly-found  mother,  in  my  ear. 

"We  were  both  congratulated.  Of  course,  the  matter 
was  considered  settled.  But  I  shall  not  linger  on  with 
the  story.  It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
widow  Sossya  took  me  home  and  put  me  to  bed  with  the 
three  little  brats  on  top  of  the  oven ;  she  herself  lay  down 
at  the  foot  of  it.  I  lay  there  perhaps  for  an  hour,  think 
ing.  When  I  heard  the  widow  snore  I  knew  it  was  time 
to  get  to  work.  I  climbed  down  very  cautiously  and, 
with  my  heart  breathless,  managed  to  step  over  her 
without  disturbing  her.  I  found  my  little  bundle,  and 
opened  the  window  with  some  difficulty.  No  sooner  I 
was  on  the  ground  than  the  window  fell  down  with  a 
slam.  I  ran  as  fast  as  I  could.  Presently  I  thought 
I  heard  cries  behind  me,  and  I  ran  still  faster.  I  passed 
a  desolate  house  on  the  road.  Someone  seemed  to  stick 
his  head  out  of  a  window  and  cried  to  me : 

''  'Mottele,  come  and  have  some  pancakes  with  me.' 
"I  was  frightened,  and  I  still  seemed  to  hear  cries 
behind  me.     I  then  came  to  a  river  and  plunged  in  and 
swam  across.     Only  then  I  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 
And  that  is  the  whole  story." 


56  THE  MASK 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  when  Gombarov  fin 
ished. 

"A  most  incredible  adventure,"  observed  Malinov,  "if 
I  did  not  know  the  sort  of  man  you  are  I  should  not 
believe  it.  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  telling  it  to  me, 
especially  since  you  have  revealed  to  me  the  Jews' 
capacity  for  joy,  and  have  proved  your  point.  I  think 
that  was  your  object." 

"Yes,"  said  Gombarov,  "and  yet  it  is  quite  true  that 
the  Jew  is  sad,  but  his  sadness  arises  from  his  very  capac 
ity  for  joy,  from  the  suppression  of  his  joy.  The  Jew 
is  a  sensualist,  if  you  will,  and  his  idealism  proceeds 
from  his  suppressed  sensuality.  And  he  is  a  materialist 
also,  if  you  like,  because  it  is  so  easy  and  pleasant  merely 
to  live  and  have  the  good  things  of  life — yes,  why  not? — 
and  yet  he  has  never  sacrificed  his  ideas  to  his  material 
ism.  Indeed,  he  has  become  a  Christ  in  denying  Christ, 
for  how  much  easier  would  his  lot  be,  at  any  rate  in 
Russia,  if  he  were  only  willing  to  give  up  his  idea." 

"You  speak  in  paradoxes,"  said  Malinov. 

"All  life  is  a  paradox.  You  as  a  chemist  understand 
what  the  transmutation  of  physical  objects  is.  There 
is  also  transmutation  in  the  so-called  spiritual  world. 
We  Jews  are  forced  to  transmute  our  joy  into  wailing 
and  lamentations,  which  you  hear  in  our  everyday  songs 
and  in  our  prayers  and  chants  in  the  synagogues,  and 
we  do  this  unwillingly,  even  unconsciously,  for  we  love 
life  and  joy.  A  land  of  milk  and  honey  still  remains 
the  Jews'  ideal  But  you,  on  the  other  hand,  castigate 
yourselves  deliberately,  you  make  self-denial  and  repent 
ance  ends  in  themselves.  The  blunt  sensuality  of  Solo 
mon's  love  'Song'  so  annoys  you  that  you  read  into  it 
a  prophetic  tribute  to  the  Christian  Church,  and  actually 
you  may  be  said  to  transmute  the  sad  view  you  take  of 
life  into  a  sensual  image.  But  to  this  day  all  good  Jews 
permit  themselves  one  day  of  unrestrained  rejoicing — 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  TELLS  A  STORY    57 

the  Feast  of  Purim — and  there  is  even  a  legend  among 
us  that  when  all  feasts  and  fasts  shall  have  passed  away 
this  one  day  will  remain.  But  Purim  will  be  here 
in  a  few  days,  and  if  you  like  I  will  take  you  to  the  syna 
gogue  and  show  you  bearded  Jews  dancing  around  with 
scrolls  in  their  hands  and  little  boys  dancing  among  them 
in  hats  of  tin-foil  and  waving  all  sorts  of  banners  in  their 
hands." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Malinov,  "I  shall  be  glad  to  see  the 
gay  sight.  As  it  is,  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  an  in 
structive  afternoon." 

Vanya,  who  sat  there  all  the  time,  listening,  was  even 
more  grateful.  The  adventure  especially  fascinated  him, 
and  it  somehow  made  him  feel  more  kindly  towards  his 
stepfather.  And  he  was  glad  to  hear  about  Purim, 
for  he  loved  its  gaiety  and  the  delicious  Purim  cakes. 


CHAPTER  V 

GRANDFATHER  GOMBAROV  PLANS  A  LEISURE  VISIT  TO  HIS 
SON,  BUT  DEPARTS  IN  HASTE 

PURIM  CAKES,  which  were  three-cornered  pastries  made 
of  a  thin  dough  filled  \vith  ground  poppy  seed  saturated 
in  honey,  were  Vanya's  especial  joy,  looked  forward  to 
with  childish  anticipation.  They  were  good  in  them 
selves,  for  they  were  made  by  Rivka,  but  doubtless  they 
were  made  even  more  palatable  for  Vanya  by  his  imag 
ination  dwelling  on  their  legendary  significance, — it  be 
ing  supposed  that  Haman,  the  Jews'  enemy,  had  worn  a 
three-cornered  hat.  It  pleased  him  even  then  to  reject  the 
more  rational  explanation  of  it  being  a  "poppy  seed 
pouch,"  for  such  was  the  meaning  if  you  took  the  Jewish 
name  for  it — "Hamantasche" — apart:  "ha"  being  He 
brew  for  "the,"  "man"  for  poppy  seed,  and  "tasche"  be 
ing  German  for  pouch. 

Gombarov's  old  father  arrived  some  days  before  the 
festival.  He  had  come  to  spend  a  month,  but  spent  only 
three  days.  He  would  not  have  stayed  that  long  had  not 
the  Sabbath  intervened,  for  no  pious  Jew  permits  himself 
to  travel  on  the  Sabbath.  His  piety  was  so  thorough  that 
he  regarded  carrying  his  bandanna  handkerchief  about 
as  work  and,  after  the  manner  of  all  pious  Jews,  he 
wrapped  it  around  his  waist  as  part  of  his  apparel. 

He  was  a  small  man  of  about  seventy,  with  a  face 
intense  for  its  long  lines  of  piety,  as  in  the  famous  Por 
trait  of  an  Old  Man  painted  by  Diirer.  His  long  black 
capote,  which  reached  the  ground,  longer  in  front  be- 

58 


GRANDFATHER  GOMBAROV  PLANS  A  VISIT    59 

cause  of  the  crouch-like  stoop  of  his  back,  seemed  a  fit 
background  for  the  long  grey  face  leaning  forward  with 
its  long  thin  grey  beard  and  the  traditional  long  side 
locks,  which  emerged  from  under  the  black  velvet  skull 
cap  at  the  temples  and  accentuated  the  pious  glitter  of 
his  long  narrow  eyes,  these  alone  hinting  at  the  violence 
of  the  last  flickers  of  ecstasy  in  a  body  long  since  dead. 
He  had  been  a  pious  Jew  so  long  and  he  had  prayed  so 
long  that  his  swaying  forward  and  back  or  from  side  to 
side  had  become  mechanical,  so  that  now  he  went  on 
swaying  even  when  his  lips  were  silent ;  and  Vanya  looked 
at  him  with  a  furtive  curiosity  and  with  that  astonish 
ment  with  which  he  might  have  looked  upon  a  violin 
player  who  made  all  the  necessary  movements  with  his 
bow  across  his  instrument  yet  produced  no  sound.  Once 
or  twice  the  old  man  glancing  up  and  catching  Vanya's 
look  called  the  boy  to  him. 

"How  much  do  you  know  of  the  Torah  ?" 

Vanya  told  him.     He  was  up  to  the  book  of  Joshua. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Eight  years,"  replied  Vanya. 

"You  know  too  little.  At  your  age  I  had  begun  the 
Talmud.  You  are  a  Shegets." 

Vanya  was  hurt  and  not  a  little  perplexed.  Here  was 
this  old  man  calling  him  a  Shegets — that  is  a  Gentile 
boy — while  the  Gentile  boys  in  the  village  sometimes 
called  him  a  Jew  and  "Christ-killer."  What  was  he, 
then  ? 

But  whether  or  not  Vanya  was  perplexed  at  his  identi 
ty,  no  such  dilemma  troubled  the  old  man.  He  was  a  Jew 
and  he  regarded  the  whole  Gombarov  household  as  a 
pestiferous  nest  of  Gentiles.  He  had  brought  with  him 
his  whole  paraphernalia  of  piety — his  praying  shawl,  his 
phylacteries,  which  he  wound  round  his  forehead  and  his 
wrists  and  the  leather  straps  of  which  left  ribbon-like 
stains  across  his  arms,  his  books,  which  he  knew  almost 


60  THE  MASK 

by  heart — he  referred  to  the  words  in  them  as  "ducats," 
he  was  storing  them  up  for  his  future  life.  Had  he 
brought  them  all  that  distance  from  his  native  village 
merely  to  contaminate  them  in  an  ungodly  house?  He 
saw  that  from  the  very  first,  when  he  put  his  foot  on  the 
threshold  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  mesuzoth  on  the 
doorpost  which  he  desired  to  touch.  He  was  at  once  led 
to  his  bedroom,  where  on  the  clean  white  wall  hung  a 
picture,  the  subject  of  which  was  that  abomination  of  all 
abominations — a  pretty  girl,  with  her  long  hair  hanging 
loosely  about  her  disrobed  shoulders,  and  with  lascivious 
eyes;  he  trembled  upon  seeing  it  and  in  a  rage — a  pious 
old  man's  rage — he  pulled  it  down  from  the  wall  and 
flung  it  out  of  the  window  on  the  grass,  where  Rivka 
found  it  later.  On  the  walls  of  his  own  house  he  had  a 
picture  of  Moses  Montefiore,  an  old  engraving  oi  the 
other  more  famous  Moses  splitting  the  Red  Sea,  a  repro 
duction  of  the  wailing  wall  of  Jerusalem  to  which  he 
had  always  longed  to  make  a  pilgrimage,  and  other  pic 
tures  of  like  character. 

There  were  other  things  which  displeased  him  in  his 
son's  house.  He  was  suspicious  of  the  china  and  kept 
on  asking  whether  this  was  a  milk  plate  or  that  a  meat 
plate.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  his  son's  wife  and 
he  thought  of  her  as  of  a  "strange  woman."  He  heard 
her  singing  Russian  songs  in  the  house.  And  she  did  not 
pay  him  enough  honour.  How  could  his  son,  a  scholar, 
marry  such  a  woman? 

It  had  now  become  quite  clear  why  the  old  man  stayed 
three  days  instead  of  a  month,  a  short  space  that  might 
have  been  even  shorter  were  it  not  that  Sabbath  inter 
vened.  It  cannot  be  said  that  the  Gombarovs  exerted  any 
pressure  upon  him  to  prolong  his  stay.  Indeed  Vanya's 
mother  threatened  to  take  a  holiday  if  the  old  man  stayed 
much  longer  and  sang  her  little  songs  with  greater  ardour 
than  usual.  There  were  whisperings  in  the  kitchen  and 


GRANDFATHER  GOMBAROV  PLANS  A  VISIT     61 

plottings  in  the  corners  of  the  house  and  altogether  the 
house  was  filled  with  an  atmosphere  of  strain — as  if  the 
old  man  himself  were  not  eager  to  go !  And  on  the  third 
day  the  old  man  went,  to  count  ducats  of  holiness  in  his 
own  pious  nest.  Everyone  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Then  another  thing  occurred  on  the  afternoon  which 
preceded  Purim  Eve. 

Vanya,  in  a  wrangling  mood,  was  standing  in  the  door 
of  the  drawing  room  brandishing  a  stick  and  defying 
Raya  and  Dunya  to  pass  through.  Gombarov,  on  hear 
ing  the  sound  of  the  clash  of  sticks,  glanced  in  through 
another  door,  and  departed  again  with  an  amused  smile. 
He  naively  admired  the  prowess  of  the  boy  keeping  off 
his  two  elder  sisters,  Raya  being  twelve  and  Dunya  ten. 
He  had  been  a  boy  himself.  The  wrangling  went  on  for 
some  time  and  Vanya  still  held  his  ground.  Raya,  soon 
tired  of  the  futile  struggle,  ran  before  one  of  Vanya's 
hard  thrusts,  and  left  the  room  by  another  door.  But 
Dunya,  whom  Vanya  resembled  in  features,  was  not 
unlike  Vanya  in  temperament,  and  was  determined  to  go 
through  that  door  and  no  other.  Several  desperate 
lunges  were  made  on  both  sides;  then  Dunya,  with  a 
sudden  quick  thrust,  caught  Vanya  off  his  guard  and 
delivered  a  stroke  which  caught  Vanya  across  the  left 
eye.  Vanya  gave  a  scream  and  dropped  his  stick.  There 
was  a  large  blue  spot  under  his  eye.  Dunya  ran  away 
and  hid  herself. 

Gombarov,  who  interfered  little  in  household  matters, 
only  laughed  at  the  incident,  and  Vanya  and  his  mother 
appointed  themselves  a  court  of  judgment  upon  Dunya. 
It  was  decided  upon  Vanya's  suggestion  to  deprive 
Dunya  of  her  share  of  Purim  cakes,  the  delicious  odour 
of  which  came  in  even  at  that  moment  from  the  pantry. 

Vanya  appointed  himself  to  watch  that  the  harsh 
decree  should  be  carried  out.  No  district  attorney  or 
police  official,  or  prison  warden  appointed  to  execute  the 


62  THE  MASK 

law,  could  have  kept  a  more  vigilant  eye  than  Vanya  his 
right  one — the  left  one  being  under  a  bandage — this  eye 
followed  Dunya  everywhere,  it  looked  through  keyholes, 
through  the  chinks  of  doors,  once  it  caught  Dunya  in  the 
pantry  just  in  time  to  make  her  hand  on  its  way  to  a 
Purim  cake  pause  midway,  again  it  detected  a  surrepti 
tious  cake  held  by  Rivka  under  her  apron  and  frustrated 
Rivka's  effort  to  smuggle  it  to  Dunya.  Vanya  was  re 
lentless,  like  the  law  itself.  Not  that  Vanya's  heart  did 
not  ache  for  Dunya,  but  his  no  less  aching  eye  and  his 
pride  and  his  stubbornness  saw  only  weakness  in  sur 
render,  while  his  brain  reasoned  that  a  law  was  made  to 
be  fulfilled. 

And  so  Purim  went  by  without  Dunya  having  any 
Purim  cake.  Vanya  ate  the  last  one  himself,  conquering 
the  struggling  desire  to  give  it  to  Dunya.  But  he  no 
sooner  finished  eating  it  than  a  feeling  of  repentance, 
keen  and  horrible,  came  upon  him.  He  saw  Dunya  cry 
ing  in  the  corner. 

Vanya  went  up  to  his  room.  Something  clutched  him 
in  his  throat  and  large  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks.  He 
felt  their  salt  taste  on  his  tongue. 

Pity  entered  his  heart  and  his  heart's  steel  melted 
before  it  as  before  a  fierce  furnace  blaze. 


CHAPTER  VI 

STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV's  OCCUPATIONS HIS  EQUIPMENT 

AS  A  TRAGIC  CHARACTER 

PEOPLE  usually  are  annoyed  with  a  man  who  has  no 
definite  occupation,  and  they  are  equally  annoyed  when 
they  meet  such  people  in  books.  They  like  a  man  who 
has  a  regular  occupation  and  regular  hours,  unless  he  be 
a  duke  or  a  railway  magnate,  and  have  other  people  work 
for  him.  John  Gombarov,  in  his  later  years,  once  lent 
a  celebrated  Russian  novel  to  an  English  friend  who 
returned  it  with  the  remark,  which  contained  as  much 
disappointment  as  admiration :  "A  finely  written  book, 
DUt  the  people  in  it  do1  not  appear  to  work.  They  seem 
to  go  in  and  out  when  they  please.  Now  in  an  English 
novel,  say  by  Arnold  Bennett,  everybody  works/'  Gom- 
)arov  smiled  grimly  at  the  thought  that  it  never  occur 
red  to  his  friend  that  these  people  did  nothing  but  work. 
This  man  was  a  Socialist  who  had  a  wife  and  two  chil 
dren  to  feed,  and  it  is  likely  that  he  regarded  the  book 
as  a  strain  on  his  sense  of  scientific  reality  and  as  an 
insult  to  his  hard,  clear-cut  intelligence. 

But  the  matter  has  still  another  aspect.  John  Gom 
barov  himself  had  one  of  those  peculiar  experiences  in 
real  life  which  illuminate  a  subject  as  with  a  flash  of 
lightning.  It  was  during  the  great  war  and  he  was  in  a 
•rain  on  his  way  to  an  English  country-town.  Opposite 
trim,  in  his  carriage,  sat  a  man  in  khaki,  a  sufficiently 
ubiquitous  spectacle  in  those  days  to  excite  no  curiosity 
or  comment.  But  this  man  was  extraordinary  somehow 

63 


64  THE  MASK 

in  the  fact  that  his  head  was  rather  large  for  the  narrow 
torse  and  shoulders  on  which  it  rested  and  that  it  topped 
the  khaki  garment  rather  awkwardly,  as  if  one  did  not 
belong  to  the  other.  Gombarov  stealthily  watched  the 
soldier's  face  and  concluded  that  with  its  luminous  eyes 
it  was  too  dark,  too  curious  and  too  intelligent  to  be 
suppressed  by  a  uniform;  indeed,  the  uniform  gave  it 
only  a  certain  distinction  of  contrast. 

"After  all,"  he  reflected,  "nothing  defines  so  clearly 
the  distinction  between  a  gentleman  and  a  waiter  as  a 
dress  suit,  it  is  an  excellent  device  for  detecting  waiters 
among  gentlemen."  At  the  same  time,  he  observed  that 
the  soldier  watched  him  also.  He  was  not  astonished 
when  the  soldier  offered  him  a  cigarette  and  entered  into 
conversation  with  him.  And  he  was  not  even  astonished 
when  the  conversation  took  a  turn  uncommon  between 
strangers.  The  man  in  khaki,  ignoring  the  weather,  the 
landscape  and  the  war,  and  all  other  tedious  topics  with 
which  a  man  strikes  up  a  chance  acquaintance,  began 
almost  at  once  by  describing  Gombarov's  own  character 
to  him;  and  he  did  it  with  a  skill  and  knowledge  which 
might  have  astonished  a  man  even  other  than  Gombarov, 
who  at  that  time  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  idea  that 
life  was  as  fantastic  as  any  artistic  creation.  And  yet 
one  slight  circumstance  astonished  even  him.  It  was  at 
the  moment  of  their  parting,  when  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  Gombarov  to  ask  his  acquaintance  what  his  occupation 
was.  "I  am  almost  ashamed  to  tell  you,"  replied  the  sol 
dier,  "I  am  a  ladies'  tailor — of  Barnstaple,  North 
Devon." 

"After  all,"  pondered  Gombarov  upon  the  incident 
later,  "why  shouldn't  a  measurer  of  women's  backs  be  as 
well  a  measurer  of  men's  faces :  perhaps  in  my  acquaint 
ance's  case,  he  does  this  last  better  than  the  first.  Who 
knows,  he  may  be  even  an  incipient  novelist.  We  have 
heard  of  drapers'  clerks  turning  novelists,  why  not  ladies' 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  OCCUPATIONS    65 

tailors?  How  is  a  nation  of  shopkeepers  to  get  its  novel 
ists  if  not  from  its  shops?  At  any  rate,  my  train  ac 
quaintance  had  the  decency  not  to  give  me  any  shop  talk. 
That  is  where  my  friend  to  whom  I  lent  that  fine  Russian 
novel  makes  his  profoundest  mistake.  He  imagines  the 
book  would  have  contented  him  if  he  knew  that  the  men 
in  it  had  regular  occupations.  He  wholly  ignores  the  fact 
that  men  are  more  interesting  when  they  have  no  occupa 
tions,  or  have  left  them,  or  have  irregular  ones,  or  are 
reactions  from  the  occupations  they  do  have.  How  can 
high  tragedy  have  her  fling  with  her  eyes  on  the  clocks? 
Sordidness  may  produce  pathos,  seldom  tragedy.  Tragedy 
must  have  a  certain  freedom,  her  limbs  must  be  free  to 
walk,  she  cannot  be  bothered  by  time  or  space,  and  she 
pauses  only  when  she  has  reached  the  ultimate — the  in 
evitable — her  doom.  But  how  can  men  doomed  before 
they  move  be  tragic  characters? — all  the  more  since  a 
tragic  character  is  only  tragic  by  virtue  of  his  striving 
with  circumstances,  by  the  pitting  of  his  will  against  the 
will  of  others,  against  the  will  of  life  itself — in  short, 
he  makes  his  own  choice,  chooses  his  own  doom.  (?uch  » // 
a  man  breaks  clocks,  makes  his  own  time.  His  occupa 
tion  becomes  only  a  secondary  thing  in  his  life2D 

In  such  a  manner,  John  Gombarov,  no  longer  Vanya, 
reasoned  about  things,  and  a  careful  listener  would  have 
quickly  seen  that{ms  thought  did  not  ramble  or  digress 
but  merely  widened  like  a  river  taking  in  all  the  streams  " 
and  tributaries  of  experience  on  its  way  to  the  seaj  And 
it  was  in  some  such  mood  as  this,  tolerant  and  loving  like 
a  river  which  has  left  behind  the  swamps  and  the  mo 
rasses  and  at  last  beholds  the  sea,  that  he,  looking  back 
ward,  tolerant  and  no  longer  despising,  considered  his 
doomed  stepfather  and  his  life  and  all  his  occupations 
and  idiosyncrasies,  which  at  one  time  disturbed  not  only 
him  but  nearly  all  people  who  came  in  contact  with  that 
strange  man. 


66  THE  MASK 

It  would  be  hard  to  say,  standing  on  one's  foot — so 
to  speak,  what  stepfather  Gombarov's  occupation  was. 
He  had  always  two  or  three  and  he  always  dropped  one 
to  take  up  another.  He  was  nearly  always  occupied,  but 
as  he  went  in  and  out  when  he  pleased — in  the  manner 
that  annoyed  John  Gombarov's  English  friend — the  im 
pression  he  gave  in  the  village  was  that  he  did  not  work 
at  all.  One  man  had  seen  him  at  such  an  hour  of  the 
day,  another  at  a  different  hour,  and  still  another  at  some 
other  hour.  These  people  came  together  and  ignoring 
the  fact  that  these  hours  were  on  different  days  came  to 
the  one  and  unanimous  conclusion.  It  would  have  been 
more  true  to  conclude  that  Gombarov  was  a  slave  to  his 
work  but  was  master  of  his  own  time. 

The  circumstances  of  Gombarov's  entry  into  the  family 
as  instructor  have  already  been  told.  He  had  taught 
Vanya's  elder  brother,  Feodor,  Hebrew  and  mathematics. 
But  he  knew  kindred  languages  as  well,  such  as  Syrian 
and  Arabic,  which  he  had  taught  himself.  When  Vanya's 
father — Boris  Andreyevitch  Semenov — left  the  house, 
and  Semyon  Bogdanovitch  Gombarov  took  his  place,  he 
settled  on  his  wife  a  sum  of  money,  some  several  thous 
and  roubles,  to  be  used  for  the  education  of  his  children, 
Raya,  Dunya  and  Vanya.  Sofya  Konstantinovna  Gom 
barov,  in  her  love  and  trust  of  her  second  husband,  trans 
ferred  to  him  all  her  possessions,  which  gave  him  an 
opportunity  to  exercise  his  practical  mechanical  genius, 
which  until  then  had  lain  fallow.  Practical  is  perhaps 
too  hard  a  word,  Gombarov's  genius  was  practical  only  to 
a  point.  All  this  will  become  only  too  clear  in  good  time. 

Gombarov's  first  practical  venture  was  poultry.  That 
seems  like  a  simple  thing,  but  Gombarov  entered  into  it 
with  his  whole  heart  and  made  the  problem  of  the  birth 
of  a  chick  as  fascinating  to  himself  as  the  creation  of  the 
world.  He  studied  the  matter  scientifically,  in  its  every 
aspect.  He  sent  for  every  possible  book  on  the  subject 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  OCCUPATIONS    67 

not  only  in  Russia  but  also  in  Germany,  he  studied  every 
make  of  incubator  and  brooder,  he  analysed  chemically 
the  egg  of  every  individual  hen  of  every  breed,  took  the 
periodical  temperature  of  brooding  hens  as  a  doctor  that 
of  a.  patient,  and  after  months  of  experimenting  he  ended 
by  inventing  a  new  and  superior  incubator,  which  ap 
proached  nearest  to  the  natural  birth-giving  and  healing 
properties  of  the  mother  hen.  And  Gombarov  himself 
used  to  say  of  it :  "It  can  do  everything  but  lay  eggs." 
But  surely  if  a  machine  could  be  made  to  lay  eggs  Gom 
barov  was  the  man  to  make  it.  Even  then  he  would  have 
to  stop  somewhere.  That  was  the  great  trouble  with 
Gombarov.  He  always  did  stop  somewhere.  That  is  to 
say,  he  always  stopped  when  he  had  exhausted  the  prob 
lem;  then  he  took  to  something  else.  He  did  not  even 
take  the  trouble,  as  other  men  would  have  done,  to  sell  the 
patent  of  his  invention  to  someone  else,  so  that  every 
idea  to  which  he  gave  birth  was  no  better  than  a  new 
born  child,  which  having  opened  its  eyes  just  long  enough 
to  see  how  wretched  the  world  was  had  decided  not  to 
give  it  the  benefit  of  its  life  and  closed  its  eyes  again 
forthwith.  Perhaps  that  was  the  Oriental  in  him.  A 
celebrated  motorist  tells  us  that  when  he  went  through 
China  at  eighty  miles  an  hour  not  a  single  Chinaman 
so  much  as  turned  his  head  to  look.  That  of  course  was 
rather  to  be  expected  of  a  people  which  in  the  long  ago 
invented  gunpowder  and  used  it  in  such  an  innocent 
pastime  as  sky-rockets.  It  is  likely  that  if  the  celebrated 
motorist  had  not  been  going  at  eighty  miles  an  hour  but 
had  been  lying  on  his  back  under  his  machine  looking  up 
at  the  mechanism  the  natives  might  have  stopped  to  look 
with  curiosity  at  a  man  who  had  come  several  thousand 
miles  and  wanted  to  go  still  further.  Now  if  Gombarov 
had  invented  the  motor  car  he  would  have  taken  one 
short  journey,  then  sent  his  machine  to  all  the  devils.  If 
as  a  boy  he  had  so  satisfactorily  explained  to  himself  the 


68  THE  MASK 

creation  of  the  world  as  a  concoction  mixed  by  God  and 
the  devil,  as  a  man  he  still  retained  an  interest  in  every 
problem  insofar  as  it  dealt  with  becoming  and  not  with 
being.  He  continued  to  treat  the  practical  affairs  of  life 
as  though  he  were  still  a  Hassid  and  a  lamdun. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  be  a  Hassid  and  a  lamdun  when 
you  are  dealing  with  the  problem  of  the  creation  of  the 
world,  but  when  you  are  busy  creating  a  family  and  have 
several  mouths  to  feed,  well,  that  is  quite  another  matter. 

To  begin  with,  Sofya  Konstantinovna  had  five  children 
by  her  first  husband.  One  of  these  had  died,  Fedya  was 
with  his  father,  Raya,  Dunya  and  Vanya  were  with  her. 
In  the  five  years  of  her  life  with  Gombarov  she  gave  birth 
to  four  more.  Two  of  these  had  died.  There  was 
Katya,  a  little  girl  of  three,  and  Ilya,  a  seven-months-old 
baby.  And  she  was  a  prospective  mother  once  more. 
That  again  showed  Gombarov  to  be  a  true  Hassid,  that 
is  a  begetter  and  not  a  murderer. 

The  capital  that  Sofya  Konstantinovna  intrusted  him 
with  was  not  large,  but  like  most  impractical  men  Gom 
barov  dreamt  of  turning  it  into  a  huge  fortune.  When 
his  interest  in  poultry  began  to  dwindle  he  bought  seven 
cows,  it  would  be  better  to  say  six,  for  one  had  the  tem 
perament  of  a  bull  and  tried  to  kick  over  the  pail  almost 
every  time  it  was  milked.  No  one  but  Gombarov  would 
have  bought  that  cow,  but  even  if  he  had  known  its  de 
fects  he  would  have  still  bought  it  for  the  mere  purpose  of 
training  it,  for  that  was  a  problem  in  itself,  and  Gom 
barov  loved  problems.  "Precisely  because  it  does  not  suit 
others  it  suits  me,"  he  used  to  say  when  he  went  against 
other  people's  advice.  And  other  men  returned  Gom- 
barov's  compliment  by  coming  to  him  for  counsel  and 
doing  the  opposite.  They  really  admired  him — in  a 
fashion.  This  admiration  had  in  it  something  akin  to 
that  of  the  American  farmer,  who,  upon  seeing  a  goat 
butting  madly  into  a  stone  wall,  remarked:  "Wai,  I 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  OCCUPATIONS    69 

admire  your  pluck,  but  goldarn  your  judgment!"  But 
this  was  not  quite  true  of  Gombarov,  who  was  not  butt 
ing  into  a  wall  but  trying  to  jump  over  it — to  see  what 
was  on  the  other  side. 

That  kind  of  man  was  Gombaror. 

"You'd  think  they  were  the  seven  wise  virgins,"  said 
a  neighbour,  who  had  observed  the  care  and  attention 
that  Gombarov  bestowed  on  his  seven  cows. 

That  these  were  given  only  to  seven  foolish  cows 
hinted  less  at  Gombarov's  unwisdom  than  at  that  quality 
in  him  which  poets  love  to  call  the  folly  of  the  wise.  He 
studied  the  needs  of  those  cows  as  he  had  studied  earlier 
those  of  the  hens.  Now  he  let  them  graze  in  one  kind  of  a 
pasture,  now  in  another  kind,  and  tested  their  milk  after 
ward  to  note  the  difference,  he  bought  a  new  microscope 
for  the  purpose  and  this  trifle  alone  cost  him  one  hundred 
and  sixty-five  roubles.  He  had  no  time  for  anything  but 
those  seven  cows,  and  their  indispositions  gave  him  grave 
concern.  At  such  moments,  moments  of  preoccupation, 
no  one  dared  to  approach  him,  not  even  his  wife.  But 
upon  one  occasion  when  he  was  working  hard  over  his 
microscope  Sofya  Konstantinovna  entered  his  laboratory 
and  in  a  faltering  voice  said  that  everyone  was  out  and 
that  she  needed  a  string  of  onions  at  once.  He  said 
nothing,  but  merely  put  on  his  hat  and  walked  out.  In  a 
little  while  he  returned  with  nothing  in  his  hand. 

"Where  are  the  onions?"  asked  Gombarova. 

"They'll  be  here  soon,"  replied  Gombarov  and  re- 
entered  his  room. 

A  half  hour  passed  and  Gombarova  had  almost  given 
up  hope  of  the  onions  ever  coming.  Then  she  heard  a 
cart  creak  through  the  gate,  and  presently  there  was  a 
knock  on  the  kitchen  door.  She  opened  the  door  and 
found  there  Kharton,  a  peasant  with  a  good-natured  face. 

"Barinya*  I've  brought  the  onions." 

*Lady. 


70  THE  MASK 

"Well,  where  are  they?  Be  quick,  the  dinner  is  spoil 
ing." 

"Where  shall  I  put  them,  barinya?" 

"Put  them  ?    Give  them  here,  I  want  them  at  once." 

"Yes,  barinya,  but  I  have  a  whole  cart-full  as  ordered 
by  the  master." 

Gombarova  looked  up  and  to  be  sure  there  was  a  whole 
cart-full  of  onions.  She  was  appalled.  What  was  she 
to  do  with  so  many  onions?  But  she  ordered  them  to  be 
unloaded. 

That  kind  of  man  was  Gombarov. 

Gombarov  ordered  a  cream-separator  from  Germany, 
and  he  boasted  that  it  was  the  first  one  of  its  kind  to  be 
used  in  Russia.  He  was  in  a  child-like  glee  when  it 
arrived  and  he  tested  it  at  once,  surrounded  by  his  gaping 
family.  A  pail  of  fresh  milk  was  brought  and  poured 
into  the  top  receptacle.  Then  Gombarov  turned  the 
handle,  the  wheels  of  the  machine  began  to  whir,  and  the 
heavy  cylinder  within  flew  round  with  such  a  powerful 
centrifugal  force  that  the  pivot  on  which  it  turned  could 
barely  be  seen.  Then  miracle  of  miracles :  a  thick  white 
fluid — the  cream — began  to  flow  fast  out  of  one  spout; 
a  thin,  greenish  fluid — the  skimmed  milk — out  of 
another.  Here  they  had  delicious  sweet  cream  and  the 
cows  had  been  milked  only  a  half  hour  before.  Vanya 
half  hid  behind  his  mother,  the  speed  of  the  machine 
frightened  him.  And  presently  something  happened 
which  justified  his  fears.  His  stepfather  was  rubbing 
his  hands  and  talking : 

"Ah,  those  Germans  are  clever!  We  Russians  are 
always  behind  in  this  sort  of  thing.  Just  look  at  the 
beauty !  No  waiting,  no  watching,  no  fooling  about  with 
jars  and  jugs,  no  depending  on  the  weather,  and  the 
cream  is  sweet  not  sour.  Just  think  of  the  butter  it  will 
make !  Rivka,  bring  another  pail  of  milk !" 

"There's  no  more  milk  left,"  said  Rivka. 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  OCCUPATIONS    71 

"What  do  you  mean,  there's  no  milk  left?"  exclaimed 
Gombarov.  "Here" — he  thrust  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  pulled  out  a  five-rouble  note — "go  and  buy  up  all  the 
milk  in  the  village !" 

In  a  little  while  there  was  a  procession  of  peasants  with 
milk  pails.  Gombarov  poured  in  pail  after  pail,  large 
drops  of  sweat  ran  down  his  face  as  with  a  diabolical 
fury  he  turned  the  handle.  Suddenly  the  machine  shook 
as  with  a  kind  of  ague,  in  almost  less  than  an  instant  the 
cylinder,  jumping  up  like  a  badly  spinned  top,  flew  with  a 
crashing  noise  through  the  window,  not  only  shattering 
the  glass  but  carrying  away  the  supports.  There  were 
screams.  Luckily,  the  heavy  projectile  flew  in  the  other 
direction,  and  no  one  was  the  worse  for  it.  Even  the 
machine  did  not  suffer.  Gombarov  very  calmly  explained 
away  the  accident,  which  was  caused  by  a  screw  he  had 
forgotten  to  tighten. 

At  the  same  time  he  bought  a  huge  butter-churning 
machine,  which  consisted  of  a  large  barrel  hermetically 
sealed  at  one  end  and  turning  round  and  round  on  a  kind 
of  pivot  leaning  on  either  end  on  a  support.  His  usual 
procedure  was  to  pour  the  milk  as  soon  as  the  cows  had 
been  milked  into  the  cream  separator,  and  immediately 
afterwards  to  pour  the  cream  into  the  churning  machine. 
He  looked  ardently  at  the  product,  which  was  indeed  a 
fine  one. 

"Russians  have  not  seen  such  a  butter.  Wait  till  they 
taste  it.  Once  they  do,  I  shall  get  orders  for  it  from 
everywhere.  I  shan't  be  able  to  supply  them  all." 

In  such  a  fashion  Gombarov  would  go  on  talking  to 
his  wife,  in  order  to  reassure  her.  He  was  planning  to 
make  the  fortune  of  the  Gombarov  house.  Yes,  he  could 
well  afford  to  spend  his  small  capital  now,  for  every  co 
peck  he  spent  would  return  to  him  a  hundred-fold. 
Vanya  would  be  a  physician,  every  girl  in  the  house 


72  THE  MASK 

would  have  a  dat.  There  was  really  nothing  to  worry 
about. 

"A  camel  might  as  well  worry  about  its  hump  getting 
smaller  when  it  was  almost  at  the  end  of  its  journey 
and  with  prospects  for  replenishing  its  hump  to  an  un 
precedented  fatness,"  argued  Gombarov  in  the  parable 
fashion  of  his  race. 

"But  Gombarov,"  ventured  his  wife  timidly,  "suppose 
what  the  camel  sees  is  only  a  mirage  and  it  is  still  hun 
dreds  of  miles  away  from  its  rich  pastures." 

Gombarov  was  angry. 

"Blessed  be  the  Lord  our  God  for  not  having  made  me 
a  woman,"  he  said,  repeating  the  words  of  the  Hebrew, 
prayer,  and  strode  out  of  the  room. 

The  day  arrived,  the  great  day  upon  which  he  had 
decided  to  take  his  wonderful  butter  to  Kieff  and  to 
startle  the  Kieffites  with  it.  No,  he  would  not  go  like 
others,  with  a  few  miserable  samples  wrapped  in  glazed 
paper.  He  would  take  a  large  barrel  along  in  a  farmer's 
cart,  and  a  large  wooden  spoon,  and  he  would  stick  that 
spoon  into  that  bulk  of  fine  creamy  fat  and  say :  "Here, 
try  it,  it  can  be  eaten  without  bread,  like  ice  cream." 
Then  as  the  man  ate  he  would  watch  his  face.  "Well, 
have  you  tasted  anything  like  it  before  ?" 

That  was  the  mood  in  which  he  left  the  house.  He 
returned  home  late  that  evening  tired  but  furious.  His 
barrel  of  butter,  except  for  a  few  nibbles  with  the  spoon 
on  top,  returned  with  him  practically  untouched. 

He  would  not  eat  his  supper. 

"The  swine,"  he  fumed,  "the  swine  wanted  my  butter 
for  the  same  price  that  they  pay  for  the  wretched  dung 
they  call  butter,  stuff  fit  for  manure.  The  swine  couldn't 
see  any  difference.  Of  course  they  couldn't  since  they 
are  swine.  They  thought  my  price  was  another  third  as 
high  as  they  paid  for  their  swine  dripping.  Well,  they 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  OCCUPATIONS     73 

shan't  have  my  butter  now  if  they  offer  me  twice  as  much 
as  I  asked  for  it." 

Gombarova  was  right  then.  Her  husband's  fortune 
was  a  mirage.  But  she  said  nothing.  She  loved  him  for 
what  he  was.  And  Vanya  might  be  a  doctor  even  yet. 

That  barrel  of  butter,  which  the  Gombarov  household 
had  hitherto  refrained  from  touching,  was  now  attacked 
with  great  avidity.  But  Gombarov  lost  all  interest  in  his 
dairy  products. 

But  Gombarov  was  not  one  of  those  men  who  are  con 
tent  to  sit  still  or  grieve  over  a  disappointed  love.  He 
had  too  much  energy  for  that  and  this  energy  sought  a 
response  in  some  new  project.  His  visits  to  town  sud 
denly  grew  more  frequent  and  upon  each  successive  visit 
he  brought  a  little  parcel  home  and  went  immediately  to 
his  workroom  with  it.  Gombarova  regarded  these  visits 
with  fear  in  her  heart,  but  dared  not  ask  what  the  parcels 
contained.  He  kept  his  room  locked,  but  once  when  he 
left  it  to  get  something  she  made  use  of  his  brief  absence 
to  take  a  rapid  glance  into  the  secret  room ;  she  found  it 
full  of  glass  bulbs  and  glass  tubes,  chemical  appliances 
and  chemicals.  She  hurried  out  trembling. 

"Sonya!"  he  called  to  her  a  few  moments  later. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  going  to  him. 

"You've  been  in  my  room,"  said  Gombarov. 

How  did  he  know?  He  grew  more  and  more  like  a 
wizard  to  her. 

QVith  this  turn  in  affairs  the  Gombarov  household  be 
came  more  and  more  like  a  ship  without  a  captain  or 
rudder  or  goalj  Gombarov  was  wrapped  up  too  much 
in  his  mysteries,  Sofya  Konstantinovna  was  with  child 
and  with  many  cares,  the  children  were  let  very  much 
alone.  The  Gombarov  house  was  drifting.  Yet  mo 
ments  of  realisation  came  to  Gombarvo  and  his  wife  of 
their  responsibilities,  but  these  moments  were  not  always 
harmonious. 


74  THE  MASK 

Sofya  Konstantinovna  w  .>  scolding  Vanya.  Gom 
barov  suddenly  pulled  a  notebook  out  of  his  pocket  and 
wrote  something  in  it.  There  was  something  in  Gom- 
barov's  manner  which  made  her  ask : 

"What  are  you  writing?" 

"I  am  noting  down  all  that  you  are  saying,"  replied 
Gombarov,  "to  remind  you  of  it  when  the  proper  time 


comes." 


That  kind  of  man  was  Gombarov.  And  she  went  on 
loving  him  in  spite  of  everything.  He  was  a  wonderful 
boy  to  her,  and  a  moment  after  the  encounter  she  was 
watching  him  climb  up  the  plum  tree  as  agilely  as  a 
monkey  and  shaking  down  the  fruit  with  the  vigour  of  a 
young  giant.  All  the  Gombarov  children  were  under  the 
tree  picking  up  the  plums  and  putting  them  into  Rivka's 
basket. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MA  FRAIL,  LONE  SAPLING  ON  A  CREST  OF  A  HILL" 

A  SENSITIVE  child  is  like  a  frail  young  tree,  a  sorrowful 
plant  if  not  hedged  in  and  protected  by  its  sturdy  elders. 
Such  a  tree  partly  hidden  and  shaded  by  others  gets 
neither  too  much  sun  nor  too  much  wind,  neither  dries 
up  nor  breaks ;  it  grows  up  tall  and  slender  and  beautiful, 
so  that  when  it  reaches  its  prime  it  is  found  fit  to  bear 
the  burden  of  its  modern  existence — as  a  telegraph  pole. 

But  Vanya  was  like  a  frail,  lone  sapling  which  stood 
on  a  crest  of  a  hill  and  bore  all  the  brunt  of  the  over-hot 
sun  and  the  full  force  of  the  frantic  winds  and  blindly 
drew  all  its  nourishment  from  its  own  sap  out  of  the 
darkness,  its  roots  feeling  their  way  deeper  and  deeper  in 
to  the  ground,  clutching  as  it  were  for  a  hold  there  with 
its  long  grasping  ringers,  for  very  life.  But  outwardly 
it  suffered  from  the  outer  glare  and  from  the  outer 
darkness  of  dark  days  and  from  the  lack  of  a  friendly 
branch  that  it  might  touch  with  one  of  its  own  branches 
and  from  the  lack  of  a  friendly  rustle  which  it  might 
return  with  a  friendly  rustle  of  its  own,  and  from  the 
lack  of  concert  of  tree  voices  rising  in  tumultuous  prayer 
with  a  mystic  majesty  to  some  young  beautiful  wood 
god,  slender  in  form — a  crown  of  leaves  on  his  head; 
only  to  fall  and  prostrate  themselves  before  his  father, 
a  kindly  old  man  with  a  long  beard  and  gnarled  hands. 

Was  it  not  because  of  this  sense  of  aloneness  experi 
enced  in  his  childhood  that  Vanya  in  his  later  years  could 
not  look  without  a  strange  and  deep  emotion,  with  a 

75 


76  THE  MASK 

sense  almost  of  affinity,  upon  a  lone  tree  upon  a  crest  of 
a  hill,  or  upon  three  almost  lone  trees  against  a  dramatic 
sky  in  Rembrandt's  etching,  or  with  a  still  deeper  feeling 
of  sympathy  that  he  looked  even  later  upon  those  gro 
tesque  trees  in  the  West  of  England,  where  the  sea-wind, 
hurling  itself  with  fury  against  the  sloping  land,  caused 
the  trees  to  bend  forward  from  the  roots  which  held  them 
fast  and  to  look  like  frantic  people  running  up  hill  as 
from  some  fabulous  monster? 

Vanya  was  left  very  much  alone.  His  stepfather,  who 
had  not  paid  much  attention  even  before,  was  too  much 
absorbed  in  his  laboratory,  his  mother  was  about  to  have 
another  child  and  was  worried  with  increasing  household 
cares,  Afanasya  was  busy  with  the  younger  children, 
Rivka  was  becoming  more  and  more  eccentric  and  bolted 
for  Kieff  even  oftener  than  before;  it  is  true  that  Vanya 
sometimes  played  with  Raya  and  Dunya  but  he  fought 
with  them  oftener.  And  he  still  went  on  with  his  German 
lessons  and  Russian  reading  exercises.  Krilov's  fables 
delighted  him  and  even  more  an  occasional  new  book  of 
fairy  tales.  But  he  was  left  to  himself  all  the  rest  of  the 
time  and  he  developed  the  habit  of  brooding — whether 
in  the  woods,  in  the  meadows,  or  in  his  room.  No  one 
ever  told  him  anything,  either  the  names  of  the  trees  or 
of  the  flowers,  and  other  things  remained  nameless  to 
him.  His  greatest  delight  was  when  his  mother  some 
times  came  to  him  at  bed-time  and  told  him  a  fairy  tale 
or  sang  a  folksong,  or  that  well-known  lullaby  by  Ler- 
montov : 

Sleep  my  baby,  sleep  my  darling, 

Bayoushki  bayou, 

Quietly  the  moon  comes  peeping, 

And  looks  down  on  you. 

I  will  tell  you  a  fairy  story, 
Sing  a  song  to  you, 


"A  FRAIL,  LONE  SAPLING"  77 

Close  your  eyes,  my  own  glory, 
Bayoushki  bayou. 

*     #     *     # 

A  bold  knight  upon  your  steed, 
A  dauntless  Cossack  soul, 
You'll  gallop  off  with  my  godspeed. 
Looking  toward  your  goal. 

0  the  bitter  tears  in  secret 

1  shall  weep  for  you, 

Sleep  my  angel,  sleep  my  pet, 
Bayoushki  bayou. 

But  of  all  his  mother's  songs  he  loved  best  of  all  the 
song  set  to  Pushkin's  "Demons"  : 

The  storm  rages,  a  Fury  released, 
The  snow  drifts  are  whirling  wild, 
Now  she  howls  like  a  beast, 
Then  she  moans  like  a  child. 

(JJhere  were  indeed  the  long  winter  nights  when  he 
lay  sleepless  and  the  snow  drifts  hurled  themselves 
against  the  window  and  he  thought  he  heard  the  wolves 
howl  in  the  woods.  And  as  he  was  a  lonely  boy  it  was 
natural  that  the  wind  and  the  trees  and  the  sodden  sky 
should  speak  to  him,  and  he  heard  their  voices  with  love 
and  fear  in  his  heart,  and  their  moods  became  his  moods) 


CHAPTER  VIII 

VANYA  WANTS  A   CUP  OF  TEA,  AND  IS  ACCUSED  OF 
WANTING  THE   MOON 

VANYA'S  eyes,  opening  drowsily  on  a  bleak  autumn 
morning,  sought  the  window,  but  the  rest  of  him  lay  so 
altogether  still  that  he  might  have  been  a  mechanical 
doll,  the  mechanism  of  which,  in  need  of  winding  up, 
was  lapsing  into  complete  inaction.  And  now  these  eyes 
looked  fixedly  out  of  the  window  as  if  the  mechanism 
had  really  stopped. 

Outside,  Autumn,  in  her  tawny,  faded-red  garments, 
with  silver  strands  in  her  distraught  hair,  was  sweeping 
up  the  ground  as  with  a  great  besom  and  sent  the  leaves 
flying  with  every  cold  gust.  The  wind  rose,  the  wind 
fell,  then  rose  again,  rustling  followed  on  silence  and 
passed  into  silence,  now  the  sweeper  rested  on  her  besom, 
now  she  renewed  her  task  with  fresh  vigour,  causing  the 
yellow  leaves  to  rise  in  an  agitated  flurry,  to  eddy  round 
and  round  in  little  aerial  whirlpools,  and  in  the  end  to 
swirl  away  with  the  current  to  settle  in  little  heaps  some 
where. 

Perhaps  in  Vanya's  heart 

There  was  the  same  rising  and  falling  there,  the  same 
eddying  flutter  as  of  dead  leaves — too  dead  for  so  young 
a  heart  sprouting  with  young  grass,  the  same  agitated 
swirl,  followed  by  the  same  settled  silence  as  under  bleak 
skies,  broken  only  by  the  cries  of  the  crows  winging 
black  against  grey. 

And  this  great  outside  world,  like  a  huge  bird,  perched 

78 


VANYA  WANTS  A  CUP  OF  TEA  79 

in  his  heart,  was  like  a  great  weight  which  prevented 
him  from  rising.  He  wanted  to  rise  and  he  could  not. 
He  wanted  to  cry  out  for  his  mother  and  found  no  voice. 
Someone  opened  the  door  quietly  and  looked  in,  then 
walked  away.  Vanya,  lying  under  his  blankets,  did  not 
even  look  up  to  see  who  it  was.  Again  the  door  opened 
quietly  and  someone  looked  in,  and  again  Vanya  made  no 
stir  to  show  that  he  was  awake. 

The  thought  of  breakfast  suddenly  came  to  him,  and 
with  this  thought  he  grew  more  animated.  Hunger  crept 
in  upon  him  like  a  slow  serpent,  and  thirst  attacked  him 
more  boldly,  like  a  ravenous  wolf.  He  wanted  his  morn 
ing  tea  most  of  all.  He  heard  footsteps  in  the  corridor, 
but  these,  passing  his  door,  went  on  and  died  away. 
Again  he  heard  footsteps,  passing  his  door,  but  these  too 
went  on  and  died  away.  Other  footsteps  passed  his 
door,  stirring  each  time  hope  in  his  heart,  but  none  of 
them  paused,  and  his  hope  fell.  And  between  the  foot 
steps  of  one  person  and  another,  thoughts  came  to  him, 
maddening  thoughts: 

What  was  the  object  of  life?  What  was  before  the 
world  began?  Of  course,  time  was  always  and  always 
would  go  on  whatever  happened,  but  space  ?  Where  did 
the  world  begin  and  where  did  it  end,  but  how  could  it 
end,  surely  there  was  something  beyond  that,  but  where 
did  it  stop,  how  could  it  stop  ?  Then  there  were  figures — • 
where  did  numbers  end? — but  how  could  they  end  when 
they  did  not  even  begin,  properly  speaking — did  not  Gom- 
barov  tell  him  that  even  one  could  be  divided  indefinitely 
and  infinitesimally  ?  He  knew  what  a  million  was,  he 
even  knew  that  a  trillion  was  a  million  million  million 
and  that  a  decillion  was  the  figure  one  with  sixty  ciphers 
— but  what  came  after  that  and  after  that,  what  name  was 
there  for  a  number  consisting  of  one  and  a  thousand 
ciphers?  His  mind  grew  dizzy, ^battalions  and  battalions 
of  figures  hurled  themselves  helplessly  against  a~wall  in 


8o  THE  MASK 

his  brain,  and  the  futile  combat  made  his  head  dizzy.  He 
tried  not  to  think,  but  all  these  problems  importuned  him 
against  his  will,  and  only  the  recurring  footsteps  in  the 
corridor  brought  the  recurring  vision,  each  time  more 
vivid,  of  a  cup  of  tea;  how  fine  it  would  be  if  a  plate  of 
steaming  blintsi — pancakes — came  with  it,  covered  with 
butter  and  cream !  But  it  was  a  cup  of  tea  which  tempted 
him  most.  Sometimes  his  mother  brought  him  a  cup. 
Footsteps  were  audible  from  time  to  time  in  the  corridor ; 
they  were  maddening,  for  they  always  passed  on.  At 
last  the  door  opened  quietly,  Rivka  looked  in. 

"Vanya,  it's  time  to  get  up." 

"Rivka,  won't  you  get  me  a  cup  of  tea,  then  I'll  get 
up." 

"I  have  other  things  to  think  of  this  morning,  you 
lazy-bones." 

Rivka,  always  kindly,  had  never  spoken  to  him  like 
that  before.  She  walked  out.  Vanya  shouted  after  her : 

"I  want  a  cup  of  tea,  d'you  hear?" 

"What  does  Vanya  want?"  he  heard  his  mother  ask 
in  the  corridor. 

"He  wants  the  moon,"  he  heard  Rivka  reply. 

This  incensed  Vanya.  They  always  said  he  wanted 
the  moon  when  he  wanted  nothing  more  than  a  cup  of 
tea. 

"I  want  a  cup  of  tea,"  he  shouted. 

His  mother  entered.     Her  manner  was  solemn. 

"I  want  a  cup  of  tea  so  much  and  Rivka  won't  give 
it  to  me." 

"Let  me  help  you  to  get  dressed,"  was  all  his  mother 
said,  and  he  let  her  help  him  on  with  the  things. 

Once  he  was  dressed,  she  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
still  looking  very  solemn  led  him  not  as  he  supposed  she 
would  to  the  dining  room  but  to  the  children's  room,  to 
Ilya's  cradle. 

"Look,"  she  said  to  Vanya. 


VANYA  WANTS  A  CUP  OF  TEA  81 

Vanya  looked  perplexed.  He  had  never  seen  Ilya  look 
like  that  before.  He  lay  erect  in  his  cradle,  his  head 
propped  up  slightly  on  his  pillow,  his  eyes  closed,  his 
small  arms  crossed  on  his  breast,  but  what  astonished 
Vanya  was  the  waxen  pallor  of  his  brother's  face — it 
looked  exactly  the  colour  of  the  candles  they  used  in  the 
house. 

"Mamma,  what  is  the  matter  with  Ilyushka?"  asked 
Vanya. 

"Ilyushka  is  dead,"  said  his  mother  repressing  her 
tears. 

At  the  word  "dead"  Vanya  looked  with  curiosity  at 
the  small  corpse,  it  was  not  so  much  death  that  interested 
him  as  the  transformation  brought  about  by  death.  The 
waxy,  doll-like  quality  of  Ilya's  plump  face,  which  had 
been  only  a  day  or  two  ago  pink  and  soft  and  all  spread 
ing  and  quivering,  held  him  fascinated,  but  fear  and 
pathos  had  no  part  in  this  fascination ;  this  was  evident 
from  the  remark  which  he  presently  addressed  to  his 
mother : 

"Mamma,  when  will  the  tea  be  ready?" 

Vanya' s  mother  did  not  appear  to  hear  his  question. 
She  went  to  her  own  room.  No  one  paid  any  attention 
to  Vanya. 

"I  want  my  teal"  Vanya  shouted  at  the  top  of  his 
voice. 

And  though  he  went  on  crying  his  cry  through  the 
house,  no  one  seemed  to  hear  him,  for  they  were  all  think 
ing  of  the  dead. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ANOTHER    GOMBAROV    OPENS    HIS    EYES    ON    THE    WORLD, 
AND  IS  NAMED  ABSALOM 

WITH  the  approach  of  winter  the  god  of  events  did 
not  spare  the  Gombarov  household. 

First  of  all,  he  brought  a  new  child  to  Gombarova — a 
boy — and  this  child  seemed  so  beautiful  and  showed  such 
lustihood  from  the  very  moment  that  its  eyes  opened  to 
the  light  that  Gombarov  was  delighted  to  the  extent  of 
ignoring  his  laboratory  for  a  whole  week,  and  during 
all  that  time  he  puzzled  his  head  as  to  what  he  should 
name  his  son.  His  first  impulse  was  to  call  him  Solo 
mon,  for  he  reasoned  to  himself  that  so  handsome  and  so 
strong  a  child  must  also  prove  to  be  no  less  wise.  But 
upon  reflection  it  occurred  to  him  that  there  were  manyv 
Solomons  in  the  world,  and  that  of  the  several  he  had 
known  in  his  time  not  a  few  were  ugly,  narrow-chested, 
and  that  one  or  two,  grown  to  manhood,  were  even  quite 
wifeless.  And  it  occurred  to  him  upon  further  reflection  ' 
that  what  he  sought  was  a  name  which  before  everything 
had  a  certain  uniqueness,  a  uniqueness,  however,  not  with 
out  distinction.  Gambarov  knew  the  whole  Hebrew 
Bible  including  those  birth  registry  sections  with  all  their 
"begats,"  almost  by  heart,  but  Absalom  was  the  name 
which  kept  on  recurring  most  in  his  mind  with  a  persist 
ence  that  boded  the  inevitable.  Absalom  was  his  choice. 

"There  is  one  thing  about  Absalom,"  argued  Gom 
barov  with  his  wife,  "there  is  probably  not  another 
Absalom  in  the  world/' 

82 


ANOTHER  GOMBAROV  OPENS  HIS  EYES   83 

"That's  just  why  I  don't  like  it,"  replied  Gombarova, 
"and  besides,  it  will  be  an  awful  nuisance  not  to  be  able 
to  call  him  anything  for  short.  You  can't  always  call 
him  Absolomchik,  which  is  rather  awkward  for  a  pet 


name." 


But  Gombarov  was  obdurate,  and  his  wife,  weak  and 
worn  out  in  her  confinement  bed,  her  new  darling  at  her 
breast,  had  not  the  strength  to  continue  the  argument, 
and  was  moreover  so  pleased  with  her  husband's  renewed 
interest  in  matters  more  intimate  than  those  connected 
with  his  laboratory  that  in  a  sense  she  gave  in  willingly. 
And  Absalom  became  the  child's  name.  As  if  realising 
the  full  portent  of  the  decision,  Absalom  in  a  few  days 
grew  a  black  shock  of  hair  amazing  for  one  so  young. 


CHAPTER  X 

ANOTHER    PORTRAIT — VANYA    LEARNS   THAT    THERE   ARE 
MYSTERIES  IN  LIFE 

THE  god  of  events  sent  a  governess  into  the  Gombarov 
household  about  the  same  time.  Her  advent  into  the  house 
meant  more  to  Vanya  than  to  any  of  the  other  children, 
why  he  himself  hardly  knew  at  the  time.  It  was  his  first 
acquaintance  with  the  subtle,  the  mysterious  and  the  in 
definable,  with  that  essence  in  life  which  is  more  of  the 
nature  of  a  sweet  frail  perfume  than  a  physical  sub 
stance,  and  which  attracted  like  ta  quiet  unflaunting 
flower.  ^ 

Nadezhda  Vassilyevna  Lavrova  was  (a  fair-haired  girl 
of  twenty-two,  medium  in  stature  and  slender,  with  an 
attractively  pale  face,  which,  clear  and  luminous,  radiated 
its  light  like  a  pale  chaste  dawn.  And  that  was  the  chief 
characteristic  of  her  facial  architecture:  it  was  chaste 
and  linear — like  a  Holbein  drawing.J  The  oval  outline 
seemed  to  have  been  drawn  with  one  firm,  masterly 
stroke,  the  eye-brows  were  two  thin,  infinitely  delicate 
arches,  separated  and  as  it  were  supported  by  a  no  less 
delicately  shaped  column  in  the  centre ;  when  the  eye-lids 
drooped,  as  they  did  at  moments,  softly,  over  their  grey- 
blue  treasure,  the  eye-lashes  formed  answering  down 
ward  arches,  edged  with  a  minute  fringe,  fashioned  with 
loving  care;  the  line  of  the  mouth  was  straight,  but  the 
upper  and  the  lower  curves  of  the  lips  diverged  gradually 
and  sufficiently  near  the  centre  to  give  the  suggestion  of  a 
slight  pout  and  a  reticent  hint  of  sensuality.  Her  long 

84 


ANOTHER  PORTRAIT  85 

slender  hands  with  their  slender  characterful  fingers 
might  have  been  carved  out  by  some  Renaissance  sculp 
tor  like  Duccio,  someone  who  surely  not  only  knew  his 
anatomy  but  was  also  a  master  of  the  decorative  line. 
Altogether  she  was  a  compact  drawing,  which  revealed 
no  evasion  of  difficulties. 

But  in  those  days  she  was  to  Vanya  not  so  much  a  fine 
drawing — that  memory  made  her  for  him — but  an  ex 
quisite  mystery.  He  loved  being  near  her,  he  loved  to  do 
things  for  her,  a  worshipful  feeling  awoke  in  him  for 
the  first  time  and  he  hovered  about  her  with  a  full,  some 
times  bursting  heart.  But  he  remained  as  always  re 
served,,  and  he  did  not  tell  her  anything  as  he  had  some 
times  meant  to  do ;  in  coming  to  her  he  lost  that  desire,  for 
her  mere  presence  already  took  his  burdens  from  him. 
Even  his  German  lessons,  which  he  now  took  from  her 
and  no  longer  from  Boris  Lvovitch,  became  easier  for 
him. 

Nadezhda  Vassilyevna,  on  her  part,  was  very  kind  to 
Vanya,  as  she  was  to  everyone;  indeed  her  excessive, 
world-embracing  kindness  and  its  child-likeness  often 
amused  the  Gombarovs,  especially  step-father  Gombarov, 
who  on  two  or  three  occasions  laughed  outright  at  her 
naive  solicitude  for  animals  and  peasants.  And  her  solic 
itude  was  really  absurd.  Once  she  suddenly  looked  out 
of  the  window  on  a  cold  winter  morning  and  saw  the  hat- 
less  Kharton  carrying  large  logs  which  he  intended  split 
ting  for  firewood.  And  she  called  to  him : 

"Kharton!" 

Kharton  dropped  his  log  in  the  snow  on  the  very  spot 
where  he  had  paused,  and  entered  the  house.  He  stood 
before  Nadezhda  Vassilyevna,  his  young  rather  lined 
face  mellow  with  good  nature,  his  long  matted  sandy  hair 
falling  in  sickle-shaped  tufts  over  his  low  forehead,  while 
thin  spreading  streams  of  perspiration  trickled  down 
from  it  like  rivulets  from  an  overgrown  forest  during  a 


86  THE  MASK 

thaw.  His  cap  stuck  out  from  under  the  belt  of  his 
blouse.  He  stood  at  a  kind  of  lazy  attention,  his  large 
horny  hands  hung  languidly  at  his  sides. 

"Kharton,  you'll  catch  cold  not  wearing  your  cap." 

The  mere  thought  of  the  cold  made  her  shiver. 

Kharton's  smile  broadened  at  Nadezhda  Vassilyevna's 
words  and  its  beam  grew  warmer,  like  that  of  an  after 
noon  sun.  The  young  woman's  solicitude,  the  warmth 
of  the  room,  and  his  shyness,  caused  the  perspiration  to 
run  down  his  face  in  profuse  streams. 

"Baarisknyq,"  he  said  at  last,  "it's  nothing  to  us  com 
mon  folk,  I'm  used  to  it.  And  in  my  soldier  days — and 
that's  not  so  long  ago — my  comrades  used  to  roll  me  in 
the  snow  naked,  just  for  a  lark,  barishnya,  right  stark 
naked,  without  a  stitch  on!  And  I  could  do  it  now  if  I 
liked." 

"Don't!"  cried  Nadezhda  Vassilyevna,  distressed,  as 
if  she  feared  he  would  put  his  threat  into  practice.  "But 
come,  warm  yourself  near  the  stove,"  she  urged  him, 
"and  then  put  your  cap  on  when  you  go  out.  But  no, 
wait,  don't  go  until  I  tell  you."  And  she  ran  out  of  the 
room. 

The  good  Kharton  did  as  he  was  told.  Kharton  was 
not  a  fool,  though  he  was  very  much  a  child, — after  all, 
one  must  humour  the  gentlefolk — ah,  he  had  met  them 
before,  those  gentlefolk  with  small  white  hands  who 
"went  among  the  people."  One  of  them,  a  frail  gentle 
thing  with  a  waist  so  thin  that  he  thought  it  was  "a  won 
der  that  a  veterok  (a  little  wind)  didn't  come  along  and 
snap  her  in  two, '  on^eTrved~"at  the  house  of  a  wealthy 
proprietor  he  had  worked  for  and  she  used  to  come  and 
attend  to  his  wife's  baby  sometimes,  fetching  it  all  sorts 
of  baby's  foods  and  medicines ;  the  little  one,  which  had 
never  tasted  anything  before  but  its  mother's  milk,  died, 
the  Lord  had  willed  it  so,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy 
on  its  soul — it  was  not  the  young  lady's  fault.  The 


ANOTHER  PORTRAIT  87 

same  little  lady  used  to  tell  him  that  there  was  no  dif 
ference  between  his  wife  and  her,  and  that  all  were  equal 
before  the  Lord ;  and  one  day,  in  a  busy  season,  she  went 
a'haying  like  common  folk,  and  she  hayed  and  hayed, 
for  hours,  and  didn't  say  that  she  was  tired  or  com 
plain  once.  .  .  . 

While  he  was  still  thinking  over  the  vagaries  of  the 
gentlefolk,  Nadezhda  Vassilyevna  returned,  bearing  a 
tray  which  contained  a  glass  of  tea  and  some  jam  tarts. 
Kharton  bowed  his  thanks,  and  pouring  his  tea  into  a 
saucer,  held  the  saucer  up  on  the  five  extended  fingers  of 
his  hand  and  sipped  audibly.  Having  disposed  of  his 
tea  and  a  jam  tart,  Kharton,  bowing,  mumbled  his  thanks, 
put  his  cap  on  and  walked  out.  He  was  perspiring 
fiercely. 

Next  day  Nadezhda  herself  visited  him  and  brought 
him  some  quinine.  Kharton,  who  could  roll  in  the  snow 
stark  naked,  had  caught  his  first  cold.  Gombarov  teased 
Nadezhda  about  it. 

Nadezhda  took  upon  herself  the  protection  of  Vanya 
—"her  little  Turk"  she  called  him.  That  was  because 
when  she  first  came  to  the  house  he  wore  a  red  fez  with 
a  black  tassel.  With  his  brown  skin,  slightly  aquiline 
nose  and  black  hair,  Vanya  indeed  might  have  been  a  lit 
tle  Turk,  and  especially  when  he  stood  beside  the  pale- 
faced,  fair-haired  Nadezhda,  in  her  white  clothes  that 
she  loved  to  wear.  Vanya's  fez  was  an  expensive  one, 
and  when  one  day  he  returned  from  a  stroll  without  it, 
having  lost  it  or  had  it  stolen,  he  received  a  very  severe 
scolding  from  his  mother,  but  Nadezhda  took  him  to  her 
heart  afterward  and  consoled  him : 

"Never  mind  the  fez,  Vanya,  you  will  still  remain  my 
little  Turk,  my  own  little  Turk." 

She  tried  to  protect  Vanya  in  other  ways.  There 
was  especially  one  exciting  winter  afternoon  in  the  Gom 
barov  house.  Vanya  had  just  returned  home,  eager  to 


88  THE  MASK 

tell  Nadezhda  about  the  wonderful  snow-man  he  had 
made.  He  found  the  house  in  a  state  of  agitation. 
Kharton  and  another  muzhik  were  going  out  with  ropes. 
A  cow  was  lowing  agonisingly  outside.  Vanya  ran 
towards  the  window  to  see  what  the  matter  was. 
Nadezhda  barred  his  way. 

"You  mustn't  look,  Vanya." 

The  cow's  cries  did  not  cease.  There  were  agitated 
/voices  outside. 

"Now  together,"  said  someone. 

"It's  coming,"  said  someone  else. 

"Another  good  pull  will  do  it,"  said  another  voice, 
which  Vanya  recognised  as  Kharton's. 

Then  someone  swung  the  door  wide  open,  and  Khar- 
ton  came  in,  bearing  in  his  arms  something  large  wrapped 
up  in  a  blanket.  He  put  it  outside  the  stove  and  half 
uncovered  it.  It  was  a  quivering  red  calf.  Nadezhda 
was  bending  over  it  in  an  attitude  of  tenderness. 

There  was  but  one  thing  that  puzzled  Vanya  for  some 
time.  That  was  Nadezhda's  occasional  severity  toward 
him.  There  were  moments  when  she  seemed  more  aus 
tere  than  she  had  cause  to  be.  He  had  done  something, 
it  was  true,  but  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  put 
him  across  her  knees,  face  downward,  and  chastise  him 
with  her  hand  on  his  naked  skin.  He  fought  and  strug 
gled  with  her  and  was  astonished  to  find  how  strong  she 
was.  And  one  day,  after  his  chastisement,  as  he  was 
rearranging  his  clothes,  he  asked  her : 

"Why  do  you  whip  me,  Nadezhda  Vassilyevna?" 

"Because  you  have  been  a  wicked  boy,"  she  replied 
in  a  tone  which  made  him  look  up  at  her. 

Child  though  he  was,  he  saw  shame  rise  in  her  eyes, 
and  he  felt  quite  as  suddenly  a  wave  of  shame  surge  up 
to  his  own,  and  this  shame  was  both  sweet  and  painful. 
Something  like  a  faint  light  was  struggling  to  break 


ANOTHER  PORTRAIT  89 

through  the  clouds  in  his  brain.  He  realised  but  one 
thing:  Nadezhda  Vassilyevna  liked  to  chastise  him,  and 
with  this  came  the  more  astonishing  realisation  that  he 
enjoyed  chastisement  at  her  hands. 

As  if  she  had  grasped  what  was  struggling  in  the 
boy's  brain,  Nadezhda  Vassilyevna  burst  into  tears,  and 
Vanya  going  up  to  her  full  of  pity  and  solicitude,  she 
pressed  him  to  her  bosom,  and  went  on  crying  out  be 
tween  her  sobs : 

"Forgive  me,  my  little  Turk !" 

Vanya  was  ready  to  do  anything  for  her. 

t 

A  few  days  later  Nadezhda  left  the  house,  and  a  few 
days  after  her  departure  two  police  officials,  with 
dangling  sabres,  called  at  the  Gombarov  house  to  make 
inquiries  about  her.  She  was  implicated  in  a  plot  on 
the  Governor's  life,  and  they  wanted  to  discover  her 
whereabouts.  They  questioned  everyone  in  the  house 
rather  severely  and  searched  her  room  but  found  noth 
ing. 

Nadezhda's  departure  left  Vanya  in  a  secret  despair, 
for  there  was  no  one  in  whom  he  could  confide.  His 
mother's  many  growing  cares  bore  her  as  upon  a  strong 
current  further  and  further  away  from  him.  He  car 
ried  his  misery  into  the  woods  with  him ;  here  the  trees 
crackled  with  frost,  and  the  dry  snow  crunched  under 
his  feet,  and  his  heart  was  full  of  sad  echoes.  The  sense 
of  the  irrevocable  bore  in  upon  him,  and  for  the  first 
time  the  thought  was  born  in  him,  "I  wish  I  were  dead." 

But  Nadezhda  remained  with  him  in  some  strange 
way.  As  Rivka  was  to  become  for  him  a  physical  symbol 
of  the  tragic  in  life,  so  Nadezhda's  white  face,  the  more 
as  it  receded  into  the  distance,  was  to  become  for  him  a 
mask  of  life's  mystery,  a  tranquil  if  sad  mask,  with  a 
thousand  emotions  surging  underneath  and  giving  it 


90  THE  MASK 

shape;  being  as  it  were,  the  quintessence  of  an  idea,  a 
clearly  delineated  abstraction  drawn  by  a  Humanist 
painter  and  endowed  with  distinguished  sensuousness 
and  flower-like  frailty,  yet  suggesting  a  strength  not  to 
be  measured  in  terms  of  our  worldliness. 
But  all  this  was  much  later. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  VILLAIN  MAKES  HIS  APPEARANCE  ON  THE  SCENE 

THE  village  tavern  keeper  Mendel  had  been  closeted 
with  Gombarov  in  the  laboratory  and  was  taking  his 
leave. 

Professor  Malinov,  who  had  called  in  at  that  moment 
and  cut  short  the  consultation,  stood  by  the  window  in 
silence  and  with  a  look  of  amused  irony  watched,  walk 
ing  down  the  pathway  toward  the  gate,  the  tall,  gaunt, 
somewhat  hunched  figure  of  Mendel,  angular  and  all 
points,  with  pointed  beard  and  pointed  coat-tails,  its 
long  legs  making  long  strides  and  cutting  long  angles 
like  a  huge  compass ;  it  looked  altogether  like  a  burlesque 
on  Mephistopheles,  and  as  it  made  its  way  rapidly  down 
the  path  and  disappeared  among  the  trees  the  last  thing 
visible  was  its  long  flapping  coat-tails. 

But  even  more  ironical  was  the  smile  of  Gombarov  as 
he  watched  Malinov  watching  Mendel. 

"You  don't  approve  of  my  friend,  I  see,"  said  Gom 
barov,  as  Malinov  at  last  turned  his  face. 

"Candidly,  I  don't.  When  I  see  you  two  together  it's 
like  seeing  white  and  black — the  most  honest  man  alive 
and  the  greatest  blackguard." 

"And  yet  we  are  both  Jews." 

"All  I  can  say  is  that  if  all  Jews  were  like  you  .  .  ." 
began  Malinov. 

But  Gombarov  interrupted  him  with  unconcealed 
irony  in  his  voice : 

9i 


92  THE  MASK 

"It's  a  strange  thing,  but  almost  every  Gentile  I  know 
has  a  Jew  or  two  he  likes." 

"Still,  I  must  urge  you  to  be  careful.  You  are  think 
ing  of  leasing  a  house  from  this  man,  who  has  the  repu 
tation  of  being  a  thief  and  an  incendiary.  He'll  not 
only  rob  you  but  burn  the  house  down  to  get  the  in 
surance.  As  you  know,  he  has  been  to  America,  where 
he  has  learnt  that  beastly  phrase  of  his  'All  right/  which 
I  have  observed  he  uses  always  in  place  of  our  own 
'Nitzchevo.'  But  why  has  he  come  back,  if  not  to  es 
cape  justice?  I  don't  trust  that  man." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  they  were  too  clever  for  him  over 
there.  He  probably  worked  on  too  small  a  scale,  and 
as  you  may  know,  it's  always  the  small  thief  that's 
caught.  But  I  suspect  my  wife  has  been  talking  to  you. 
Don't  think  I  don't  know  my  man.  Only  yesterday  I 
called  at  his  place  and  found  him,  with  a  grin  on  his  face, 
having  rifled  a  little  while  before  the  pocket  of  a  muzhik 
he  had  made  drunk.  I  was  rather  amused :  the  three  of 
them,  that  is  Mendel  himself,  his  son  and  Mendel's  very 
old  father,  were  sitting  around  the  table,  discussing  the 
affair.  Mendel  was  saying:  'I  did  the  job  well,  didn't 
I?'  'All  right!'  said  the  son.  The  old  man,  dressed  in 
his  long  black  capote,  smiled  contemptuously :  'You  are 
still  in  your  swaddling/  said  he,  turning  to  Mendel,  'your 
mother's  milk  hasn't  dried  yet  on  your  lips.  Now  look 
at  me — as  true  as  I  am  a  Jew,  with  beard  and  locks, 
all  by  myself  I  have  stolen  seven  horses  in  one  night, 
when  I  was  your  age.  Well,  that's  something  to  boast 
of.  Now  aren't  you  ashamed  of  your  kindergarten 
tales?  And  are  you,  or  are  you  not,  the  son  of  your 
father?" 

"Detestable!"  exclaimed  Malinov. 

"Perhaps  you  have  changed  your  mind  about  my  hon 
esty,  but  as  scientists  we  must  regard  all  matters  with 
out  prejudice.  If  I  permitted  myself  a  prejudice  I 


A  VILLAIN  MAKES  HIS  APPEARANCE      93 

should  be  even  more  prejudiced  against  the  stupidity  of 
the  muzhik  in  permitting  himself  repeatedly  to  be  done 
by  the  same  Jew  and  by  the  same  trick.  You  yourself 
said  the  other  day  that  stupidity  is  a  crime,  in  which  I 
agreed  with  you." 

"Yes,  but  there  is  such  a  thing  as  tipping  the  scales 
the  other  way.  I  was  struck  by  statistics  I  happened  to 
chance  upon,  which  showed  Jewish  forgers  in  Russia 
preponderantly  out  of  proportion  to  their  population," 
said  Malinov. 

Gombarov  looked  at  Malinov's  grave  face  and  burst 
into  a  laugh,  boyishly  gleeful  and  innocent.  He  began 
by  making  a  jest : 

"As  we  all  know,  figures  do  not  lie.  They  show  per 
haps  in  this  case  that  the  Jew's  aversion  to  the  cross  is 
sufficiently  great  to  induce  him  to  learn  how  to  write  his 
own  name." 

Then  seriously: 

"But  really,  figures  do  lie  in  spirit  even  when  they 
are  true  to  the  letter.  You  don't  permit  a  man  to  own 
or  till  land  and  expect  him  to  produce  fruit  and  vege 
tables  ;  you  are  very  much  astonished  when  he  only  pro 
duces  a  crop  of  forgeries ;  but  even  in  this  you  do  all  you 
can  to  prevent  him,  for  you  permit  only  a  certain  per 
cent  to  go  to  schools — I  dare  say  the  forgers  are  not 
of  this  lucky  number,  which  usually  consists  of  doctors 
and  professionals  of  all  sorts.  In  short,  you  deny  the 
Jews  straw  to  make  bricks  with,  and  are  surprised  and 
indignant  that  the  bricks  he  has  made  by  the  sheer  wiz 
ardry  of  his  brain  pave  the  way  to  hell!  When  I  look 
upon  Mendel,  I  neither  sympathise  with  him  nor  do  I 
condemn  him.  I  regard  him  as  I  would  regard  a  chem 
ical  product,  forced  into  its  present  shape  by  outer  forces, 
not,  however,  without  coming  in  conflict  with  resisting 
forces  from  within,  and  this  clash  and  all  its  torture  re 
sulting  in  a  thing  which  it  is  true  oftener  resembles  one 


94  THE  MASK 

of  your  medieval  Christian  gargoyles  than  a  human 
being." 

"Admitting  that  there  is  some  truth  in  what  you  say," 
interposed  Malinov,  "remember  you  are  proposing  to 
take  a  house  from  Mendel,  and  Mendel's  reputation  is 
too  unsavoury  for  you  to  risk  the  venture.  I  am  speak 
ing  as  a  friend." 

"I  am  different  from  other  men,  and  I  get  along  with 
all  sorts  of  people,"  replied  Gombarov.  "Now  Mendel 
happens  to  have  the  only  vacant  house  in  the  neighbour 
hood  with  a  room  large  enough  to  contain  the  new  ma 
chinery  I  have  ordered.  Depend  upon  me :  I  can  handle 
my  man  if  no  one  else  can." 

In  spite  of  the  protestations  of  his  wife,  his  friend 
Malinov,  and  his  neighbours,  all  dubious  about  the  proj 
ect,  ( ion il Kirov  was  obdurate,  as  always.  He  took  over 
Mendel's  big  house  in  the  village,  and  in  spite  of  its  be 
ing  midwinter  moved  all  the  household  effects  and  ma 
chinery  on  sledges.  Little  Katya  caught  a  light  case 
of  pneumonia,  the  first  day  in  the  new  house,  which  had 
not  yet  thawed  out,  but  fortunately  prompt  aid  pulled 
her  through  quickly.  Things  were  not  settled  for  some 
time  in  the  house. 

New  machinery  went  on  arriving  almost  every  day. 
Gombarov  became  more  and  more  absorbed  in  his  new 
project.  No  one  in  the  house  appeared  to  know  what 
the  project  was,  though  it  was  evident  that  it  had  to  do 
with  metallurgy,  for  among  the  things  to  arrive  were 
crucibles,  rind  moulds  and  drills  of  all  sizes  and  shapes, 
and  bars  of  metal.  The  larger  pieces  of  machinery  were 
fixed  securely  with  screws  to  slightly  raised  platforms  on 
the  (loor,  while  numberless  pivotal  wheels  ere  arranged 
along  the  ceiling  and  connected  by  Ion;;-  leather  belting 
with  the  wheels  on  the  mechanisms  below. 

Sometimes  Gombarov  was  too  absorbed  in  arranging 
his  place  to  appear  at  meals.  lie  and  his  workman  could 


A  VILLAIN  MAKES  HIS  APPEARANCE      95 

be  heard  hammering  nearly  all  day ;  there  were  short  in 
tervals  of  silence  and  an  occasional  whir  of  wheels. 
Gombarova  had  a  preoccupied  look  at  luncheon,  when 
Gombarov  did  not  appear  and  the  hammering  went  on. 
Once  or  twice  she  attempted  to  remind  him  by  knocking 
on  his  door. 

"I  am  coming!"  he  would  shout  without  opening  the 
door. 

When  he  finally  came  the  next  meal  was  on  the  table. 
He  gobbled  his  food  quickly  without  waiting  for  des 
sert  and  left  at  once  for  his  room,  in  spite  of  his  wife's 
entreaties.  He  grew  more  and  more  indifferent  to  house 
hold  matters,  more  and  more  abstracted  in  his  ways,  and 
as  absent-minded  as  that  Flicycndc  lUdcttcr  professor 
who,  protected  by  his  umbrella,  went  out  in  a  downpour 
of  rain  to  water  the  ilowers.  The  peasants  regarded 
him  with  awe  as  if  he  were  a  kind  of  magician  ;  the  well- 
to-do  mid. lie  elasses  regarded  him  simply  as  a  fool  with 
a  bee  in  his  bonnet  who  was  "chucking  his  money 
away;"  those  in  his  own  house  beginning  with  (iom- 
barova  looked  upon  him  with  that  sense  of  inarticulate 
fear,  which  came  of  the  instinctive  realisation  that  their 
fate  was  solely  in  the  hands  of  this  man,  that  their  future 
was  at  his  disposal,  and  that  this  future  was  altogether 
enigmatical. 

Weeks  and  weeks  passed.  As  the  hammering  in  Gom- 
barov's  workshop  ceased,  the  whir  of  wheels  grew  more 
frequent,  occasionally  accompanied  by  the  stentorian  bu/x 
of  the  drill.  Sometimes  one  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
interior  through  the  door  being  left  open,  a  bellows  op 
erated  by  machine  power  could  be  seen  fanning  the  fires 
in  the  oven,  in  which  hung  a  number  of  crucibles  sup 
ported  on  a  long  rod.  Now  and  then  Gombarov,  per 
spiring  profusely,  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  could  be  seen 
bending  over,  throwing  a  new  ingot  into  a  crucible,  al 
most  transparently  white  from  the  heat.  Then  again 


96  THE  MASK 

he  was  seen  to  take  down  one  of  the  crucibles  with  ; 
long  pincer-like  weapon  and  to  pour  the  contents  into 
wedge-like  iron  mould  prepared  for  the  purpose.  T< 
Gombarova,  passing  the  door,  it  seemed  as  if  he  wer 
pouring  out  and  forming  their  own  souls.  "This  ingo 
has  a  blemish,"  Gombarov  was  at  one  moment  sayini 
to  his  workman.  Gombarova  fled  with  fear  in  her  hearl 

It  was  Vanya's  great  joy  to  be  sent  into  the  worksho] 
with  a  message,  as  he  was  sometimes  permitted  to  linge 
and  to  watch  the  molten  metal  being  poured  out  an< 
afterwards  the  newly-hardened  alloy  being  filed  t< 
smoothness.  Sometimes  the  whole  process  was  per 
formed  out-of-doors ;  at  such  times  special  earthei 
moulds  were  prepared  in  a  long  box  filled  with  blad 
soil. 

No  one  appeared  to  know  the  object  of  Gombarov' 
experiments.  Gombarova  had  long  since  ceased  to  op 
pose  him  or  to  question  him,  but  there  were  keen  mo 
ments  when  her  great  love  of  him  swallowed  up  all  he: 
fears.  And  as  the  small  capital  left  by  her  first  hus 
band  dwindled,  the  hope  in  her  heart  grew  rather  thai 
diminished  that  Vanya  would  yet  be  a  doctor. 

The  long  weeks  stretched  into  months.  There  ha< 
become  two  worlds  in  the  Gombarovs'  house.  Gom 
barov's  workshop  was  one  world,  the  Gombarov  house 
hold  was  another.  And  this  last  world  was  like  a  satel 
lite  of  the  first;  it  clung  to  it  by  an  attraction  over  whicl 
it  had  no  control,  with  all  its  chaos  it  held  together  lik< 
a  mass  of  nebulae  by  some  central  force  quite  outside  it 
self,  and  gravitated  along  with  it  in  a  circle  of  helples 
subjection. 

On  one  side  of  the  big  double  door,  the  wheels  wen 
on  whirring,  the  hammers  beating,  the  drills  buzzing  thei 
stentorian  monotonous  song — all  the  discords  uniting  t< 
form  a  symphony  of  energy ;  on  the  other  side  was  a  con 
stant  scurrying  of  many  feet,  a  constant  wrangling  of  re 


A  VILLAIN  MAKES  HIS  APPEARANCE       97 

•fractory  young  voices,  the  scolding  by  the  elders,  now 
tby  Gombarova,  now  by  the  servants,  now  old  Afanasya's 
pleading  voice,  now  Rivka's  nervous  threat  of  withhold 
ing  the  nice  warm  tarts  she  had  just  baked,  now  Marta's 
<robust  commanding  voice  demanding  obedience.  In 
spite  of  this  formidable  concert  of  commands,  scold 
ings,  threats  and  entreaties  Vanya  went  on  bawling,  and 
'the  other  children  went  on  mimicking  him.  At  last,  in 
desperation,  they  seized  Vanya  by  the  shoulders,  and  in 
spite  of  all  his  struggles  they  succeeded  in  pushing  him 
through  the  open  door  into  the  cold.  Outside  was  a 
biting  frost;  Vanya  felt  it  nipping  his  ears  and  the  tip  of 
his  nose.  He  began  to  hammer  at  the  door  with  his 
small  fists,  and  to  shout  names  at  his  tormentors.  This 
not  only  annoyed  them,  but  kept  him  warm.  Large 
burning  tears  of  resentment  and  self-pity  trickled  slowly 
in  his  heart.  Gombarov  sometimes  heard  Vanya's 
knocks  and  cries,  and  marvelled  at  the  boy's  persistence. 


CHAPTER  XII 
MARTA'S  STRANGE  LOVER — VANYA'S  DREAM 

ONE  day  Spring  appeared,  with  as  yet  a  shy  smile. 

And  Winter,  his  heart  softened,  relaxed  his  hard, 
white  bearded  face,  down  which  ran  large,  warm  spread 
ing  tears,  and  his  eyes  grown  younger  laughed  through 
them  at  the  sight  of  the  soothing  sun. 

Vanya  liked  the  thaw.  The  dear  rivulets  revealed 
the  fresh  grass,  as  yet  tender  as  a  babe's  skin.  Here  and 
there  skeleton  bushes  and  young  trees  and  clusters  of 
leafless  thorns  emerged  from  the  deep  snow  like  symbols 
of  a  coming  resurrection.  Mountains  of  snow  rolled 
away  as  it  were  and  released  the  earth  from  her  entomb 
ment.  The  fringe  of  long  icicles,  edging  the  eaves  of 
houses  like  a  lace,  diminished  perceptibly,  and  its  pat 
terns  grew  softer,  less  austere.  Holes  opened  up  in  the 
hard,  inert  stream  like  eyes  waking  from  a  long  sleep, 
and  the  clear  water  blinked  out  of  them  with  animation. 
Miniature  waterfalls  formed  themselves  in  the  thinner 
streams  in  the  meadows  and,  following  the  course  of 
these  streams,  Vanya  saw  them  wind  between  banks  of 
snow  and  disappear  under  the  snow  like  endless  thin 
serpents  entering  their  lairs.  The  little  sledge  bells  jin 
gled  along  the  roads,  and  in  their  jingle  there  was  the 
joy  and  sadness  of  last  snows.  A  delicious  smell  came 
from  the  earth,  in  those  spots  where  the  white  robe 
slipped  from  her.  The  young  man  in  the  troika  put  his, 
lips  blissfully  for  a  moment  on  the  hair  of  the  young  girl 
at  his  side — where  it  showed  under  the  little  fur  cap, 
and  breathed  deeply  at  the  same  time.  While  the  great 

'98 


MARTA'S  STRANGE  LOVER  99 

>un,  smiling,  put  out  his  long  radiant  fingers  and  undid 
he  perspiring  driver's  sheepskin. 

But  in  the  evening,  when  the  Sun  closed  his  eyes  and 
[rew  the  dark  bed-cover  over  his  radiant  limbs,  there 
•vas  a  change. 

The  Wind,  with  a  great  flowing  beard  like  a  besom, 
eant  his  giant  arms  on  a  black  cloud  and  blew  from  the 
lorth.  The  troika  driver,  going  out  in  the  evening  for 

drink  of  "something  hot,"  put  up  his  large  fur  collar 
md  pulled  down  the  ear-flaps  over  his  ears.  Winter, 
ulking,  as  if  he  repented,  hardened  his  face  again,  his 
ears  froze  into  icicles,  and  the  stream,  like  a  deep  furrow 
>n  his  forehead,  crackled  as  he  knitted  his  brow. 

Vanya  felt  wretched.  He  went  to  his  room,  and  in 
lis  lonely  misery  he  tore  his  hair.  Later,  finding  it  cold 
n  bed,  went  to  the  kitchen  and  climbed  up  on  the 
>ven.  Here  lay  Marta,  who  was  glad  of  company.  She 
>ressed  Vanya  to  her  hot  body  and  whispered : 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,  golubchik;  *  a  domovoi  ** 
i  little  while  ago  had  his  knee  on  my  chest  and  his  hand 
MI  my  throat,  trying  to  strangle  me." 

Vanya  shivered. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  golubchik,  he  never  comes  when 
here  are  two." 

"Why  don't  you  marry,  then,  and  then  he  won't 
ome?" 

"Ah,  you  don't  understand,  golubchik'' — and  Marta 
vent  on  to  explain:  "You  see  it's  this  way:  it  was  on 
he  last  Kuzma  and  Demian  night,  and  I  lit  a  candle  and 
at  before  a  mirror,  watching  in  it  for  my  chosen  one  to 
.ppear.  In  a  little  while  I  thought  I  heard  a  low  knock 
m  my  window,  then  the  door  opened  and  closed,  some- 
me  seemed  to  slip  in  though  I  didn't  see  anyone,  then 
here  was  a  slight  stir  of  air  as  if  someone  was  coming 

*  Darling;  literally,  little  pigeon. 
**  House  demon. 


ioo  THE  MASK 

closer, — 'my  loved  one,  my  golubchik  has  come/  I  was 
thinking,  and  I  looked  all  excited  into  the  glass.  .  .  ." 
At  this  point  Marta  gave  a  little  sob  and  could  not  go 
on  for  a  moment. 

"What's  the  matter,  Marta,  what  happened?"  asked 
Vanya,  all  agitated  and  afraid,  but  fascinated  in  some 
unaccountable  way  and  wanting  to  know  more. 

And  as  soon  as  Marta  could  speak,  she  said : 

"...  I  saw  him  ...  in  the  glass  .  .  .  looking  over 
my  shoulder  .  .  ." 

"Him?"  asked  Vanya.  "You  mean  .  .  .  "  and 
stopped  short. 

"Yes,  the  by  ess*  He  was  grinning  at  me,  as  large 
as  life  .  .  .  then  I  fell  into  a  faint  .  .  .  when  I  came  to 
there  was  nothing.  But  ever  since  then,  he's  come  to 
me  some  night  .  .  .  and  he  puts  his  knee  on  my  chest 
and  his  hands  on  my  throat  and  tries  to  choke  me.  The 
Lord  have  mercy  on  me,  a  miserable  sinner." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  in  that  pause  the  windows  rat 
tled  with  the  wind,  and  an  unfastened  shutter  struck 
the  wall  somewhere  with  a  bang. 

"Oh  Lord,  have  mercy  .  .  ."  moaned  Marta. 

Vanya  plucked  up  courage  to  speak : 

"I  say,  Marta,  do  you  believe  in  him — the  byessf 
Papa  says  there  is  no  by  ess — and  no  vyedma"  ** 

"Lord  bless  you,  child,  and  I  saw  one  myself  the  other 
evening  as  I  was  walking  alone  along  a  dark  lane — she 
was  flying  round  up  in  the  air  on  a  broom-stick,  and  she 
looked  at  me  and  showed  her  teeth  .  .  .  and  so  I  quickly 
crossed  myself,  and  she  disappeared  all  of  a  sudden. 
You  see  they  are  afraid  of  the  cross,  that's  why  they 
never  come  nigh  a  church  spire.  And  now,  Vanya,  go 
to  sleep,  darling," — and  she  laid  Vanya's  head  gently  on 
her  high  firm  bosom,  there  where  the  by  ess  had  had  his 

*  Byes=demon. 
**  Vyedma=witch. 


MARTA'S  STRANGE  LOVER  .  ,101 

knee,  and  had  a  feeling  that  Vanya's  head  would  protect 
her  that  night,  not  only  because  "her  chosen  one"  came 
to  her  only  when  she  was  alone,  but  also  because  it 
seemed  to  her  that  biessi  in  general  had  a  partiality  for 
Christians ;  she  had  worked  in  many  Jewish  families  and 
she  had  yet  to  meet  a  Jew  who  feared  the  devil.  And 
she  wondered  how  such  good-hearted  people  as  the  Gom- 
barovs  did  not  believe  in  Christ,  and  that  meant  that 
they  did  not  fear  God  either.  What  a  strange  people 
— not  to  fear  either  God  or  devil. 

Marta  was  right  The  by  ess  did  not  come  to  her 
again  that  night. 

But  if  he  did  not  come  to  her,  he  came  to  Vanya,  if 
not  the  by  ess  himself,  then  at  least  the  byess's  second 
cousin. 

Vanya  dreamt  that  he  was  in  his  own  bed,  and  that 
a  tall  thin-legged  man  with  a  rooster's  head  came  to  him 
and  sat  down  on  the  chair  by  the  bed.  He  smiled  at 
Vanya  out  of  his  bright  green  eyes  under  his  big  red 
comb,  then  rose  and  beckoned  to  Vanya  to  follow  him. 
Vanya  felt  horribly  afraid  but  felt  drawn  on  by  a 
strange,  irresistible  fascination.  He  rose  and  followed 
his  guide.  He  walked  through  corridor  after  corridor, 
in  the  dark;  he  knew  that  his  guide  was  ahead  of  him, 
though  he  could  not  hear  his  footsteps,  only  a  dim  glim 
mer  of  light  coming  from  he  knew  not  where  played 
upon  his  guide's  red  cock's  comb;  they  turned  corner 
after  corner,  there  seemed  to  be  no  end.  But  at  last 
they  came  to  a  passage  where  the  corridor  appeared  to 
stop.  The  guide  pulled  two  curtains  aside  here,  and 
revealed  a  little  alcove  and  a  little  door  at  the  end  of  it, 
lit  up  mysteriously  as  by  a  dim  image  lamp.  Vanya 
thought  he  heard  voices,  which  as  he  approached  the 
door  seemed  in  some  curious  way  to  change  into  a  kind 
of  cackle  as  of  hens.  Then  a  terrible  fear  came  upon 
Vanya,  and  just  as  his  guide  was  about  to  take  him  by 


102  THE  MASK 

the  hand  and  puli  him  through  the  door  he  gave  a  violent 
scream  and  woke  up,  sobbing.  Marta's  face  was  over 
him,  and  she  was  drawing  his  face  to  her  bosom.  Marta 
was  saying  tenderly: 

"What's  the  matter,  darling?     Don't  cry,  darling.'* 


CHAPTER  XIII 
VANYA'S  FURTHER  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  THE  DEVIL 

MANY  weeks  passed  without  any  important  happen- 
ng.  Gombarov  went  on  with  his  experiments,  Gom- 
>arova  was  more  than  ever  preoccupied  with  household 
:ares  and  with  desperate  thoughts  of  the  future,  the 
:hildren  continued  their  wrangling.  Vanya,  for  some 
•eason,  felt  dull  and  sluggish,  his  mind  was  full  of  vague, 
:ontending  thoughts,  and  in  his  unhappiness  a  kind  of 
:ever  consumed  him  within — like  a  fire  which  struggles 
hrough  many  passages  of  an  edifice  to  find  its  way  out 
tnd  finds  no  egress.  And  he  himself  lived  and  walked 
n  a  kind  of  restless  fog,  which  had  no  end.  As  before, 
10  one  paid  any  attention  to  him,  and  there  was  no  one 
o  tell  him  anything.  And  shut  off  in  this  way  from 
:ommunion  with  others  life  became  for  him  a  real  prob- 
em,  and  young  as  he  was  there  were  moments  when  he 
ilready  looked  upon  the  world  as  upon  a  phantom  world 
)eopled  by  phantoms  and  there  were  the  more  rare  mo- 
nents  when  neither  the  world  nor  he  appeared  to  exist 
it  all  and  everything  was  a  dream.  But  these  moments 
vere  a  happiness  to  him,  an  escape  from  reality,  which 
vas  like  the  slow  groaning  monotony  of  a  Russian  folk 
long. 

He  also  found  relief  in  Andersen's  fairy  tales, 
£rilov's  fables  and  in  Rivka's  jam  tarts.  A  new  book 
vas  a  real  event,  and  at  this  time  Robinson  Crusoe's 
vorld  was  more  real  to  him  than  the  world  he  lived  in. 

103 


104  THE  MASK 

A  week  came  crowded  with  events. 

On  a  day  in  early  summer  Vanya  was  passing  the  mar 
ket  place.  A  large  crowd,  mostly  peasants,  were  gath 
ered  there  in  a  circle.  A  woman's  pitiful  screams  came 
from  the  centre — and  between  the  screams  the  dull  sound 
of  lashing  with  a  whip.  Without  knowing  what  was 
happening  Vanya's  heart  was  tortured  with  pity,  and  his 
first  impulse  was  to  run  away  from  these  agonising  cries, 
which  awakened  fear  in  him  and  made  him  tremble  as 
with  ague.  But  that  intense  curiosity,  which  made  him 
follow  the  coxcombed  one  through  the  corridors  of  his 
dream,  now  made  him  halt  and  turn  his  face  abruptly 
toward  his  fears.  Who  was  the  poor  woman  who  was 
crying  ?  Why  was  she  crying  so  piteously  ?  How  could 
men  torment  others  so,  and  look  on?  Perhaps  it  was 
not  that  at  all  that  made  Vanya  turn,  but  something  else 
which  he  did  not  yet  understand.  For  looking  back 
upon  this  little  episode  years  afterward,  Vanya,  no 
longer  Vanya,  but  John  Gombarov,  knitting  his  eyebrows 
in  his  effort  to  recall,  sometimes  wondered  as  to  whether 
he  had  not  mixed  things  up  and  whether  this  was  not  a 
dream  like  the  other  dream.  But  whether  it  was  a 
dream  or  not  a  dream  John  Gombarov  remembered  that 
he,  Vanya,  small  and  insignificant,  made  his  way  with  a 
trembling  and  aching  heart  through  the  crowd,  which 
was  too  interested  in  the  spectacle  to  bother  about  a  lit 
tle  boy  nudging  his  elbows  against  their  knees,  and  he 
came  upon  this  scene :  Marta  was  in  the  middle,  her  hands 
tied  to  a  post.  One  muzhik  was  standing  at  her  side 
and  lifting  up  her  skirt  from  behind,  while  another  was 
plying  the  lash. with  all  his  might  across  her  bare  but 
tocks  and  legs.  Later  Vanya  discovered  that  this  pun 
ishment  was  meted  out  to  her  for  stealing  something 
from  one  of  the  muzhiks  of  the  village.  She  had  been 
discharged  some  weeks  previously  by  Gombarov  for 
stealing  silverware.  Vanya  look  pitifully  at  Marta 


VANYA'S  FURTHER  ACQUAINTANCE       105 

squirming  and  at  her  exposed  parts,  streaked  red  and 
blue.  He  thought  of  the  devil  who  troubled  her  and 
wondered  whether  it  was  that  they  were  trying  to  beat 
out  of  her.  He  had  heard  such  things  were  done. 

That  evening  Vanya  asked  his  mother : 

"Were  they  trying  to  beat  the  devil  out  of  Marta?" 

Stepfather  Gombarov  overheard  the  question. 

"No,"  he  interposed  with  a  laugh,  "more  likely  it  was 
the  devil  in  them  that  made  them  beat  her." 

The  devil  became  a  terrible  reality  to  Vanya.  That 
night  he  cried  out  in  his  sleep,  and  his  mother  came  to 
him  and  comforted  him  and  put  him  in  her  bed. 

Next  day  Vanya  happened  to  pass  the  window  of  cob 
bler  Ivanov's  shop.  Stepan  Antonovitch  Ivanov  was  sit 
ting  at  the  window  working  over  a  boot.  Yankel's  rival, 
observing  a  shadow  in  the  street,  looked  up.  Vanya  sud 
denly  and  involuntarily  stopped  short,  as  he  realised  that 
it  was  Ivanov  who  yesterday  had  used  the  whip  on 
Marta.  So  it  was  this  man  who  had  the  devil  in  him! 
Ivanov's  brusque  voice  broke  in  upon  Vanya' s  reflection : 

"Move  on,  you  little  Christ-killer !" 

Vanya  impulsively  stuck  his  tongue  out  and  was  about 
to  pass  on,  when  something  huge,  heavy,  as  of  iron, 
struck  his  mouth  and  fell  to  the  ground.  It  was  a  mili 
tary  boot,  with  spurs  and  heavily  nailed  heels.  Vanya 
put  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  the  upper  lip  was  swollen  and 
bleeding,  there  seemed  to  be  a  big  gash  under  the  lip. 
Vanya,  greatly  alarmed  and  agitated,  ran  home.  It  was 
a  hot  day  and  the  sweat  and  the  tears  ran  down  Vanya's 
face  and  mixed  with  the  blood  and  made  him  look  quite 
wretched.  There  was  consternation  in  the  Gombarov 
household  at  the  sight  of  him.  Gombarov  examined 
him,  but  owing  to  the  swelling  it  was  hard  to  tell  how 
deep  the  gash  was.  After  Vanya  had  been  attended  to, 
Gombarov  took  him  to  the  police  sergeant  of  the  dis- 


io6  THE  MASK 

trict  and  lodged  a  complaint  against  Ivanov.  The  ser 
geant,  who,  owing  to  the  heat,  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
put  on  his  epauletted  coat  and  his  sabre  in  order  to  look 
official  and  sent  for  Ivanov.  In  a  few  minutes  Ivanov 
appeared,  carrying  a  pair  of  boots.  He  was  questioned. 

"It  was  your  own  boots,"  replied  Ivanov,  unwrapping 
the  parcel,  as  if  the  fact  of  their  being  the  sergeant's 
boots  mitigated  the  offence. 

The  sergeant  looked  at  the  huge  boots,  and  scratched 
the  nape  of  his  neck;  they  were  indeed  his  own.  He 
looked  rather  puzzled,  as  if  this  revelation  of  their  being 
his  boots  put  the  guilt  on  his  shoulders. 

"Nitschevo,*  a  fine  pair  of  boots,"  drawled  out  the 
sergeant  at  last,  "but  next  time  you  must  throw  any 
thing,  try  a  lady's  pair,  a  fashionable  lady's,  if  possible." 

Gombarov  took  Vanya  home  to  await  the  result  of  the 
injury.  Luckily,  the  gash  showed  every  prospect  of 
healing. 

If  these  two  petty  events  had  a  place  in  Vanya's  life 
they  were  nothing  to  what  happened  a  week  later,  on 
the  night  that  Gombarov  left  for  town  to  apply  to  the 
authorities  for  a  permit  to  start  his  works.  That  night 
was  to  change  radically  not  only  Vanya's  life  but  that 
of  the  whole  Gombarov  household. 

*  Never  mind! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CONSPIRACY CONFLAGRATION 

STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV  left  for  town  that  evening  in 
great  exultation.  At  last,  after  many  months  of  ardu 
ous  labour,  he  was  to  start  his  works.  What  he  was 
going  to  manufacture  was  a  mystery  in  the  village.  But 
why  should  the  village  know  if  the  Gombarov  house 
hold  was  kept  in  the  dark  about  it?  It  is  likely  that 
Gombarova  knew,  but  if  she  did,  doubtless,  after  her 
husband's  earlier  ventures  she  was  afraid  to  speak  of  it, 
lest  she  arouse  hopes  doomed  to  fall,  and  fears  too  rack 
ing  to  be  borne.  And  when  she  rocked  the  cradle  at 
night  and  sang  "Bayoushki  bayou"  it  was  not  only  to 
lull  her  youngest  to  sleep,  but  also  to  lull  into  forgetful- 
ness  the  hopes  and  fears  of  her  heart.  The  past  was 
always  passing  like  a  cloud  across  clear  skies — a  kind 
of  premonition  calling  upon  her  to  suspect  the  future. 
And  to  dwell  thus  on  the  past  is  to  invert  time,  to  look 
upon  the  future  as  upon  a  tormenting  memory.  This 
mood  communicated  itself  in  a  measure*  to  the  rest  of 
the  household. 

In  the  village  the  mystery  annoyed  many  people,  mys 
tery  being  a  divine  attribute  and  therefore  unbecoming 
to  a  frail  human.  And  the  rumour  grew  among  cer 
tain  people  of  Gombarov  being  Antichrist. 

As  for  Gombarov  himself,  he  felt  altogether  uncon 
cerned  about  himself,  or  the  past,  present  or  future.  He 
now  regarded  his  poultry  experiment  as  child's  play, 
and  his  rusty  cream  separator  as  but  a  cast-off  toy. 

107 


io8  THE  MASK 

What  he  was  doing  now  was  quite  different.  Now  he 
dealt  with  fire,  crucibles  and  metals,  a  combination  full 
of  infinite  and  fascinating  possibilities,  and  giving  him 
an  interest  in  life  equal  to  that  of  a  god  and  a  creator. 

And  somewhere,  in  a  deep  subterranean  chamber,  the 
way  to  which  led  through  a  thousand  dark  corridors, 
sat  two  Beings — one  large-limbed,  with  a  huge  beard, 
Jehovah-like,  grave;  the  other  tall  and  gaunt,  with 
pointed  beard,  Satanic,  with  a  stealthy  leer.  The  two 
faced  each  other  over  a  table  in  the  Fate  Chamber,  and 
on  the  table  were  lying  various  charts  with  curious  zig 
zag  marks,  not  unlike  the  thermometer  charts  on  which 
doctors  note  the  progress  of  their  patients;  these  were 
charts  of  individual  lives  and  they  showed  how  near  men 
approached  heaven  or  hell.  The  Satanic  one  was  lean 
ing  his  right  elbow  on  a  tall  pile  of  these  charts.  The 
Other  was  halding  a  chart  in  his  left  hand  and  saying: 

"Now  here  is  a  man  after  my  own  heart.  I  mean 
Semyon  Gombarov.  He's  a  vessel  full  of  joy  and  en 
ergy.  He  is  altogether  fearless,  and  nothing  daunts 
him.  He  is  good  because  he  knows  no  good  and  no 
evil.  He  has  the  brain  of  a  god  and  the  soul  of  a  child. 
He  perspires  over  his  work,  and  yet  it  is  all  play  to  him. 
He  tires  of  one  toy  and  gets  another.  But  now  he  has 
found  a  toy  which  he  will  never  tire  of.  I  am  thor 
oughly  delighted  with  him." 

"And  you  think  you  are  sure  of  him,"  said  the  Satanic 
one.  "You  must  bear  in  mind  that  you  have  been  par 
ticularly  good  to  him.  You  have  given  him  everything : 
health,  a  wife  who  loves  him,  and  money  to  indulge  his 
whims.  It  is  easy  to  be  good  when  you  have  what  you 
want.  It  is  easy  to  throw  away  toys  when  you  have 
grown  tired  of  them.  But  now  he  has  a  toy  that  he 
loves,  and  of  which  he  is  not  likely  to  tire.  Take  that 
away  from  him  and  see  what  will  happen.  See  whether 


CONSPIRACY— CONFLAGRATION         109 

his  spirits  won't  dampen,  whether  he  will  remain  a  child, 
whether  all  his  fine  energy  won't  turn  from  its  play  to 
curse  you.  It  is  true  that  at  present  the  chart  shows 
that  he  is  zig-zagging  his  way  to  heaven,  but  we  are  by 
no  means  at  the  end  of  his  chart.  Give  him  into  my 
charge  for  a  short  time  and  see  whether  he  doesn't  fall 
more  quickly  than  he  rose.  Come,  you  know  yourself 
that  you  don't  want  anyone  who  hasn't  stood  the  full 
test." 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?" 
"Take  his  toy  away  from  him." 
"And  how  do  you  propose  to  do  that?" 
"Oh,  I've  arranged  all  that.     It  was  my  influence,  as 
you  may  suspect,  that  has  made  him  lease  the  house  from 
Mendel,   who  is  one   of    my  most   efficient  emissaries 
with  a  fine  record  of  arson  on  earth." 

"Very  well.     But  there  is  just  one  thing.     Be  care 
ful  about  Vanya.     I  am  very  much  interested  in  him." 
"Don't  you  worry  on  that  account.     I  am  not  inter 
ested  in  him — at  least  not  just  yet.     As  you  know,  it  is 
never  too  late  to  spoil." 

The  night  was  starless  and  moonless,  A  great  dark 
ness  and  stillness  settled  upon  the  earth,  and  this  dark 
ness,  like  a  hugh,  brooding  hen,  spread  out  her  wings  and 
enfolded  every  house,  every  tree,  every  living  thing. 
And  in  this  darkness  the  gleaming  green  eyes  of  Lucifer, 
like  those  of  a  cat,  watched  one  Mendel  prowl  cautiously 
round  the  Gombarov  house  past  midnight.  There  was 
nowhere  a  sound  or  a  glimmer  of  light. 

Vanya  woke  with  a  start,  and  rubbed  his  eyes.  There 
was  a  terrific  pounding  on  the  outer  door,  and  loud 
shouting.  Why  was  his  room  lit  up  so  curiously?  Why 
were  there  those  strange  dancing  shadows  on  the  walls 
and  on  the  window  draperies?  What  was  that  strange 


no  THE  MASK 

crackling  behind  the  large  double  door,  connecting  Van 
ya' s  room  with  the  workshop  but  barred  and  bolted  on 
the  other  side?  Vanya  looked  behind  him  toward  the 
large  double  door.  Little  flames  were  shooting  up  from 
the  chink  under  the  door,  like  a  brood  of  young  serpents 
poking  their  heads  for  the  first  time  out  of  their  nest. 
The  room  was  hot  and  oppressive.  The  pounding  and 
the  shouting  continued.  There  was  the  sound  of  run 
ning  footfalls  in  the  street.  Quite  suddenly  there  was  a 
stir  in  the  house  itself,  there  was  a  commotion  in  all  the 
rooms  as  in  a  hive  suddenly  awakened  to  find  an  in 
truder  within,  the  house  was  seething  with  agitation, 
the  cries  of  the  children  rose  sharply  above  the  confusion 
of  dim  noises. 

As  Vanya  jumped  out  of  bed  the  small  door  swung 
wide  open  and  his  mother  ran  in  and  seized  him  by  his 
hand. 

"Hurry  up,  Vanya!"  she  cried  desperately,  dragging 
the  half  sleepy  Vanya  along  through  the  corridor  to  a 
place  where  all  the  children  but  half  dressed  were  hud 
dled  together  in  charge  of  Rivka.  "Oh  my  God!  Oh 
my  God!" 

Someone  had  by  this  time  hammered  down  the  outer 
door  with  an  axe,  and  there  were  several  hands  ready 
to  receive  them  outside.  The  faces  of  the  peasants  shone 
as  yet  dimly  in  the  red  haze  which  came  and  went  in 
flickers ;  this  haze  came  from  the  sparks  which  flew  from 
the  chimney;  it  rose  and  died  down  and  rose  again  with 
growing  volume;  it  was  as  if  the  whole  house  were  gasp 
ing  and  breathing  hard  through  its  mouth.  But  beyond 
the  radius  of  this  red  haze  everything  was  black.  This 
blackness,  too,  was  alive,  men  could  be  heard  running  in 
it  with  clinking  pails,  and  the  din  of  voices  grew  and 
grew.  But  this  blackness  did  not  stay  black  long.  Even 
as  Gombarova  was  making  her  way  with  her  children, 
counting  them  again  and  again  to  see  that  they  were  all 


CONSPIRACY— CONFLAGRATION         1 1 1 

there,  the  light  pursued  them,  and  lit  up  their  way  for 
them  toward  a  friendly  cottage. 

"Oh  my  God,  oh  my  God!"  groaned  Gombarova. 

She  no  sooner  saw  her  children  secure  in  the  cottage 
than  she  ran  out  again,  to  save  what  she  could.  By 
this  time  the  flames  tore  themselves  desperately  from  the 
windows,  lingered  for  a  moment  outside  as  if  undecided 
which  way  to  turn  and  were  then  caught  up  by  sudden 
gusts  of  wind,  which  came  God  only  knew  where  from 
and  swept  the  flames  round  the  house  with  a  wide  flut 
ter  like  that  of  a  loose  scarf  round  a  woman's  neck  on 
a  wintry  day.  The  air  as  far  as  could  be  seen  was  filled 
with  floating  particles,  a  snow  of  another  world,  fan 
tastic  and  unbelievable.  Threads  of  green  flame  and 
blue  flame  intruded  upon  the  red,  and  when  these  ap 
peared  there  were  strange  noises  and  little  explosions. 
These  came  from  the  chamber  where  Gombarov  kept 
his  chemicals  and  they  confirmed  the  faithful  wiseacres 
in  their  belief  that  Gombarov  was  Antichrist  and  a 
worker  in  black  magic.  If  anything  more  were  needed 
to  assure  them  it  was  that  terrible  moment  for  every 
one  when,  with  a  deafening  noise,  a  black  thing  rose 
swiftly  from  the  flames  and  cutting  a  curve  through  the 
red  haze  cut  a  deep  gash  in  the  earth  at  the  feet  of  the 
police  sergeant. 

The  sergeant  trembled  at  his  narrow  escape  and  swore 
an  oath;  then,  reconsidering,  crossed  himself.  "Nits- 
chevo"  he  remarked,  looking  at  his  fine  military  boots 
with  spurs,  the  same  pair  that  Vanya  was  acquainted 
with,  and  then  at  the  wedge-like  piece  of  steel  only  a  few 
inches  away;  he  attempted  to  pull  it  up,  but  not  all  the 
exertion  of  his  powerful  frame  could  budge  it.  "A 
fine  pair  of  boots,"  he  went  on  mumbling  to  himself, 
but  the  thought  at  the  back  of  his  mind  was  that  not 
even  this  fine  pair  of  boots  could  have  saved  him  if  that 
evil  thing  had  come  a  few  inches  nearer. 


ii2  THE  MASK 

When  Gombarova  arrived  she  found  that  a  few  of  the 
more  thoughtful  neighbours  had  saved  some  of  the  bed 
ding  and  other  objects  of  utility  and  had  piled  them  up 
at  some  distance  from  the  house.  But  it  was  useless  to 
think  of  saving  more.  The  fire  had  spread  very  rap 
idly  and  caught  the  whole  house  as  if  it  were  no  more 
than  a  shell. 

The  new  village  fire  engine,  drawn  and  worked  by 
human  hands,  proved  useless.  It  was  its  first  trial,  and 
it  simply  would  not  work.  This  provoked  all  sorts  of 
comment. 

"What  can  you  expect  when  you  have  demons  against 
you !"  said  one  who  believed  Gombarov  to  be  Antichrist. 

"The  little  beast  is  costive,"  said  a  more  practical  per 
son,  who  was  examining  the  mechanism. 

"Give  her  a  drop  of  castor  oil,"  suggested  a  third, 
who  always  made  a  joke  at  other  people's  misfortunes. 

There  was  a  procession  of  men  with  pails,  and  each 
time  the  contents  of  one  were  dashed  on  the  flames  there 
was  a  slight  derisive  sizzle,  so  that  one  of  the  water  car 
riers  remarked: 

"You  might  as  well  spit  at  the  thing,  for  all  the  good 
it  will  do." 

The  fire,  aided  by  sudden,  unaccountable  gusts,  was 
relentless,  and  clearly  determined  to  make  a  thorough 
job  of  it.  By  dawn  it  died  down  to  a  few  spasmodic 
outbreaks.  It  was  dying  hard,  gasping.  The  charred, 
broken  walls  began  to  delineate  themselves  more  and 
more  sharply  against  the  growing  radiance  spreading 
across  the  sky  in  long  white  spokes,  like  a  magic  fan, 
full  of  light  and  coolness.  And  as  the  outbreaks  of 
fire  died  down  to  flickers,  that  part  of  the  house  which 
had  once  been  Gombarov's  machine  shop  now  revealed 
a  chaos  of  jagged,  almost  shapeless  junk.  Wheels  and 
cog-wheels,  and  iron  rods,  and  tangled  wire,  and  shreds 
of  belting,  and  yards  of  tortured  zinc,  and  what  not,  lay 


CONSPIRACY— CONFLAGRATION         113 

there  scattered  in  hopeless  confusion — chaos  of  destruc 
tion.  Only  a  row  of  charred  crucibles,  large  and  small, 
rested  unperturbed  on  an  inbuilt  brick  shelf  of  a  wall 
partly  left  standing,  like  a  brood  of  birds,  inured  to  fire, 
perching. 

Gombarova  looked  on  this  desolation  and  on  those 
parts  which  went  on  smouldering  and  thought  it  was  all 
a  nightmare.  But  from  time  to  time  realisation  pene 
trated  the  fog  in  which  she  was  immersed,  like  a  bird 
with  a  small  beak  of  fire,  and  it  pecked  at  her  heart  with 
small  hot  stings,  very  small  at  first,  but  growing  deeper, 
and  bolder,  and  more  frequent. 

"Oh  my  God,  oh  my  God !"  she  moaned  forsakenly. 

Then  she  thought  of  her  children  and  went  back  to 
them.  All  except  Vanya  were  lying  on  the  rescued  bed 
ding  and  trying  to  sleep,  but  Vanya  was  pacing  up  and 
down  the  small  clay-paved  room,  and  crying : 

"Oh  mother,  what  has  become  of  you,  oh  mother, 
where  are  you?" 

On  seeing  his  mother  Vanya  embraced  her  wildly 
and  sobbed  with  bitter  joy.  All  worn  out,  Gombarova 
fell  upon  the  bed  prepared  on  the  floor  for  her,  but  she 
could  not  sleep.  For  the  little  beak  of  fire  continued  to 
peck  at  her  heart,  while  under  her  heart  a  new  life 
stirred. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Gombarov  arrived,  with  the 
official  permit  in  his  pocket  to  start  his  works.  He 
walked  from  the  station  to  the  village.  Many  eyes, 
mostly  of  bourgeois  cottagers,  peeped  at  him  stealthily 
from  behind  window  curtains.  For  some  reason  a  few 
felt  a  malicious  joy  at  the  misfortune  of  this  strange 
man,  very  likely  it  was  because  they  felt  that  his  down 
fall  was  in  some  way  a  justification  of  their  own  com 
fortable  respectability.  In  any  case,  they  were  burning 
to  know  how  he  would  take  it.  There  were  others, 


114  THE  MASK 

chiefly  peasants,  who,  holding  the  man  in  awe  and  tak 
ing  no  stock  in  the  Antichrist  story,  sympathised  with 
him  genuinely.  Gombarov,  who  had  already  been  ap 
prised  of  his  misfortune  by  the  station  master,  walked 
on  oblivious  of  all  eyes.  The  good  Kharton,  who  had 
been  on  the  lookout  for  him,  followed  him  at  some  dis 
tance,  and  hesitated  to  speak.  But  when  his  master 
reached  the  scene  of  the  fire  and  had  stood  for  some  time 
contemplating  the  result  of  many  months'  labours  he 
walked  up  to  him  timidly  with  his  hat  off  and  remarked 
with  hesitation : 

"A  misfortune,  master." 

"Nitschevo ....,"  said  Gombarov  slowly  in  a  voice 
free  of  all  emotion. 

Kharton  looked  up  in  astonishment  at  his  master,  but 
the  latter  did  not  say  another  word  or  give  the  slightest 
indication  of  his  feelings  in  his  face.  He  made  his  way 
through  the  debris,  looked  here  and  looked  there,  picked 
up  this  and  that,  put  everything  down  nonchalantly; 
then,  led  by  Kharton,  he  went  to  the  cottage,  where  his 
family  awaited  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  GOMBAROVS  DECIDE  TO  EMIGRATE 

THE  Gombarovs  took  a  small  cottage  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  village.  They  wanted  time  "to  think  things  over." 

There  was  too  much  for  Gombarov  to  do  to  brood 
over  things,  but  there  were  spare  hours  during  which  he 
could  be  heard  pacing  up  and  down  his  now  small  room 
according  to  his  former  habit.  But  the  footsteps  seemed 
slower  and  heavier,  as  if  the  growing  burden  of  his 
mind  poured  itself  in  a  clotted  fluid  through  the  arteries 
of  his  strong  body  and  down  his  legs,  whose  movement 
it  fettered  as  with  a  dull  force  which  held  back. 

Perhaps  it  only  seemed  so  to  Gombarova.  So  many 
things  seemed  to  her  in  those  days.  One  day  passing 
her  husband's  door,  which  was  slightly  open,  she  thought 
she  heard  a  sob,  and  glancing  in  stealthily  she  saw  that 
his  face  was  calm  and  showed  no  outward  signs  of  emo 
tion.  But  if  the  thought  of  her  husband  sobbing  gave 
her  pain  and  a  desire  to  comfort  him,  this  appearance  of 
calm  hurt  her  even  more,  for  she  thought  that  if  he  was 
calm  it  was  because  the  misfortune  as  far  as  it  affected 
the  family  concerned  him  little;  besides,  if  he  had  only 
come  to  her  for  comfort  she  would  have  felt  comforted 
also. 

Not  that  everything  was  lost,  and  they  were  wholly 
penniless.  A  good  part  of  the  burned  property  was  in 
sured,  and  the  money  would  be  coming  in  before  long. 
And  there  was  still  a  trifle  left  of  the  original  capital. 
But  it  was  not  that  which  mattered,  but  the  three  re- 

"5 


ii6  THE  MASK 

corded  failures,  two  ordained  by  Gombarov,  the  third  by 
God :  was  it  not  all  the  same  in  the  end  ?  Once  you  begin 
life  like  that,  it  goes  on  like  that.  Once  Misfortune  comes 
through  the  door  and  takes  a  seat  at  your  table,  whether 
you  like  it  or  not  you  must  press  her  to  your  heart  and 
call  her  your  friend.  It's  no  use  hinting  that  you  are 
tired  or  bored,  and  that  you'd  like  to  see  your  friend 
Luck  for  a  change.  Whether  she  understands  you  or 
not,  she'll  take  no  hint,  once  she  comes  as  a  "permanent 
guest"  with  all  her  luggage  of  petty  annoyances — that's 
the  sort  of  a  hussy  she  is !  And  when  Luck  comes  along 
looking  for  a  nice  lodging  and  is  greeted  at  the  door  by 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  well,  he  can  tell  at  once  by 
looking  into  her  eyes  that  Misfortune  has  taken  up  her 
"digs"  there,  and  making  a  few  polite  inquiries  he  runs 
from  the  house  without  so  much  as  leaving  his  name  or 
address. 

Gombarova  tried  to  think  when  it  was  that  she  caught 
her  first  glimpse  of  Misfortune's  face.  And  after  rack 
ing  her  memory  for  some  time  she  thought  it  might 
have  been  during  that  scuffle  some  years  ago  just  be 
fore  her  first  husband  finally  left  the  house,  at  that  mo 
ment  that  Vanya  entered  the  room  and  the  terrified  look 
on  Vanya's  face  did  not  seem  like  his  own ;  and  now  re 
calling  that  look  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  future  stared 
at  her  with  that  same  look,  and  that  nothing  again  would 
restore  its  calm  trust  and  nothing  else  again  would  make 
it  smile  its  open  smile  free  from  all  stealth.  Yet  how 
could  that  be?  How  could  love  and  misfortune  enter  in 
together?  Was  not  love  a  proud  castle  keeping  all  ene 
mies  at  bay?  Was  not  love  a  fire  which  burnt  up  all 
petty  annoyances,  withered  up  all  fear?  Did  she  not 
in  changing  her  life  act  with  supreme  courage  and  shake 
everything  from  her  for  the  sake  of  her  love?  No,  she 
thought,  she  was  selfish.  She  had  only  herself  in  mind, 
and  her  own  joy  and  had  no  thought  of  the  children. 


THE  GOMBAROVS  DECIDE  TO  EMIGRATE    117 

And  at  the  thought  of  her  children  it  now  came  with  a 
full  force  upon  her  how  badly  she  had  neglected  them. 
Poor  Raya,  poor  Dunya,  poor  Vanya — children  by  her 
first  husband — what  had  they  to  look  forward  to?  And 
not  alone  they  but  Gombarov's  own  children — Katya 
and  Absalom,  and  the  unborn!  But  no,  she  thought 
again,  it  was  not  really  that  which  worried  her,  for  she 
knew  that  if  he  had  only  come  to  her  and  said :  "Sonya 
dearest,  I  know  how  hard  it  is  for  you  to  bear,  all  this 
misfortune,  and  I  know  there  are  you  and  the  children 
to  think  of,  but  don't  think  too  much  about  it,  dearest, 
everything  will  be  all  right  in  the  end," — then  nothing 
would  have  mattered,  and  she  would  have  borne  every 
thing  gladly.  Or  if  he  had  come  to  her  and  said :  "Oh 
Sonya,  what  has  happened  has  made  me  sad,  put  your 
dear  hands  on  my  head  and  soothe  me" — then  she  would 
have  borne  everything  gladly.  And  reflecting  on  her 
doubts  in  this  way,  she  thought  herself  selfish,  after  all. 
If  she  really  loved  him,  why  shouldn't  she  endure  his  si 
lence,  why  shouldn't  she  admire  his  strength  which  had 
perhaps  too  much  pride  to  ask  for  comfort,  why  shouldn't 
she  yield  to  him  in  all  matters  without  questioning,  with 
out  asking  anything  in  return  for  what  she  gave?  She 
knew  that  he  had  some  such  ideas  on  this  subject,  and 
she  thought  that  it  was  possibly  her  mistrust,  or  shadow 
of  mistrust,  which  had  shut  his  tenderness  up  with  lock 
and  key.  But  how  could  she  do  this,  she  who  had  trained 
in  a  gymnasia,  and  had  read  Pushkin  and  Turgenev  and 
Heine  and  loved  the  romantics? 

Thus  does  misfortune  open  the  gates  to  other  mis 
fortunes,  and  Gombarova  bore  everything  with  a  stoical 
patience.  Luckily,  there  were  many  practical  affairs  to 
be  settled,  and  there  were  many  consultations  held  be 
tween  Gombarov  and  his  wife.  And  there  were  signs 
of  reawakened  tenderness  in  him,  which  made  matters 
easier  to  discuss.  The  first  conclusion  to  be  reached  was 


n8  THE  MASK 

that  any  new  ventures  could  only  be  undertaken  in  a 
new  place,  the  farther  from  the  present  scene  the  bet 
ter.  This  was  really  a  concession  to  his  wife  by  Gom- 
barov,  who  had  no  sentimental  prejudice  associated  with 
places  of  misfortune.  But  no  one  was  cruel  enough  to 
remind  him  about  the  warnings  he  had  received  with  re 
gard  to  his  leasing  the  house  from  Mendel. 

The  question  was  where  to  go.  They  talked  over 
many  places  and  came  to  no  conclusion.  The  great  dif 
ficulty  was  the  children,  who,  it  was  decided,  ought  to 
be  near  a  place  where  their  education  could  be  attended 
to  properly. 

"Why  not  go  to  America  ?"  one  day  suggested  Vanya, 
who  was  re-reading  his  "Robinson  Crusoe." 

That  was  an  inspiration.  Both  parents  had  had  the 
thought  for  some  time,  and  each  was  afraid  to  utter  it. 

"Yes,  why  not  America?"  cried  Gombarov  with  a 
laugh,  and  was  astonished  at  the  reply: 

"One  might  do  worse." 

It  was  settled  that  they  should  go  to  the  new  land  of 
milk  and  honey. 

But  where?     What  city? 

Again  Vanya  came  with  the  suggestion.  He  read 
aloud  from  his  geography  book: 

"Philadelphia,"  'the  City  of  Brotherly  Love/  is  cele 
brated  for  its  public  institutions,  its  hospitals,  its  schools, 
its  free  colleges  of  learning." 

That  appealed  to  Gombarova,  who  had  not  given  up 
the  idea  of  making  a  doctor  of  Vanya.  After  all  there 
was  the  medical  tradition  of  the  family  to  live  up  to. 
She  had  nursed  that  idea  so  long  that  she  could  not 
now  imagine  Vanya  as  anything  else  but  a  doctor.  And 
if  their  capital  should  ever  be  quite  gone,  "the  City 
of  Brotherly  Love"  with  its  great  hospitality  would  open 
its  many  doors  to  them.  An  image  arose  in  her  mind  of 
that  wonderful  house  which  had  belonged  to  her  great, 


THE  GOMBAROVS  DECIDE  TO  EMIGRATE    119 

great  grandfather,  a  very  pious  Jew,  who  had  lived  to 
the  age  of  107.  This  house,  which  was  not  over-large, 
stood  at  the  cross-roads,  and  it  had  four  doors,  one  door 
facing  each  point  of  the  compass,  so  that — the  family 
tradition  went — no  hungry  wayfarer  should  find  a  cold 
doorless  wall  staring  in  his  face  even  at  a  distance.  The 
old  man  was  long  gone  and  the  old  house  did  not  long 
survive  him.  How  could  one  live  always  subject  to 
drafts?  asked  the  new  owner,  who  had  it  pulled  down 
and  had  put  in  its  place  a  house  with  only  one  door — 
the  tradition  goes  on  to  say  that  this  new  house  soon 
caught  fire  in  the  night,  while  its  master  was  asleep,  and 
that  the  flames  cutting  off  his  escape  to  the  one  door, 
he  died  in  great  agony  and  that  nothing  was  left  of  him 
but  his  charred  bones.  It  was  hard  to  say  how  much 
truth  there  was  in  the  latter  part  of  the  story,  but  no 
one  doubted  the  story  of  the  four-door  house  open  at 
all  hours  to  wayfarers  from  the  east  and  the  west  and 
the  north  and  the  south.  She  had  not  for  a  long  time 
thought  of  this  story,  which  had  been  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation,  but  by  some  curious  associa 
tion  of  ideas  in  her  mind  the  description  of  Philadelphia 
read  by  Vanya  evoked  in  her  a  clearer  image  of  the  old 
house,  no  longer  existent,  than  she  had  ever  experi 
enced. 

The  Gombarovs  were  credulous  folk.  From  the  first 
to  the  last  they  were  like  children.  That  was  perhaps 
because  they  had  lived  for  so  long  away  from  other  peo 
ple  and  saw  little  of  their  relatives.  Very  likely  it  was 
because  most  people,  relatives  in  particular,  disapproved 
of  Gombarov,  whom  they  considered  as  an  adventurer. 
Whatever  the  cause  may  have  been,  the  Gombarov  house 
hold  had  lived  for  many  years  in  almost  complete  isola 
tion.  Almost  the  only  people  they  came  in  contact  with 
were  the  peasants,  most  of  whom  like  the  good  Kharton 
jvere  also  children.  But  there  was  this  difference:  the 


120  THE  MASK 

Gombarovs,  because  of  their  race  and  intellectual  strain, 
were  not  quite  care-free  or  light-hearted,  but  were  more 
like  the  children  of  old  parents.  They  had  not  the 
smartness  of  people  of  their  station  who  had  lived  long 
in  towns,  but  as  the  blood  of  townsmen  and  of  nomads 
was  in  them,  an  inherited  restlessness  hovered  about  them 
and  caused  a  confusion  in  their  souls,  of  the  nature  of 
which  they  were  hardly  aware.  Vanya  for  one,  young  as 
he  was,  had  already,  because  of  this  contactless  life,  de 
veloped  a  fear  for  his  future.  The  idea  that  some  day  he 
would  have  to  go  among  people  and  adopt  a  "career" — 
a  word  he  had  heard  his  mother  speak  so  often — agitated 
him  unpleasantly. 

But  like  children  they  all  believed  implicitly  the  words 
in  the  geography  book.  The  vision  of  Vanya's  career 
rose  like  a  mirage  in  Gombarova's  thoughts,  journeying 
thousands  of  miles. 

And  the  matter  was  decided.  They  had  only  to  wait 
until  the  insurance  had  been  collected,  and  Gombarova 
was  delivered  of  her  child. 

Vanya  was  proud  of  his  part  in  the  great  decision. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   LEAVE-TAKING — VANYA's   DREAM 

"FAREWELL,  Russia !  Farewell,  Russia !"  Vanya  kept 
on  saying  to  himself  as  the  train  trailed  its  way  slowly 
across  that  part  of  land  which  separated  the  last  Rus 
sian  station  from  the  first  German  one.  Two  very  tall, 
elaborately  decorated  gendarmes  had  boarded  the  train 
a  few  minutes  earlier  and  examined  the  passports  of  the 
Gombarovs,  who  had  a  whole  third-class  compartment  to 
themselves.  About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  same 
duty  was  performed  by  two  gendarmes  in  a  different 
kind  of  uniform  and  speaking  in  another  tongue.  And 
between  these  two  points  Vanya  kept  a  very  sharp  look 
out  for  some  sort  of  mark  which  would  show  where 
Russia  ended  and  Germany  began.  He  thought  there 
would  be  a  fence,  or  a  series  of  posts  or  a  ditch,  but  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing,  only  a  flat,  treeless  field,  with  a 
cottage  here  and  there.  Someone  in  the  corridor  sud 
denly  remarked :  'This  is  the  frontier."  Vanya  looked 
eagerly,  but  there  was  nothing ;  a  few  sentries  in  German 
uniform,  marching  up  and  down  with  fixed  bayonets, 
were  the  only  evidence  that  they  were  in  Germany. 

"Farewell,  Russia!  Farewell,  Russia!"  Vanya  went 
on  muttering. 

Gombarova  held  the  two-months-old  baby  in  her 
arms.  She  could  not  afford  to  take  Rivka  along,  indeed 
she  could  not  afford  any  servant  now.  Gombarov  him 
self  remained  behind.  He  was  to  join  them  later  in 
America.  The  insurance  affair  was  not  quite  settled, 

121 


122  THE  MASK 

owing  to  the  slowness  into  the  inquiry  about  the  cause 
of  the  fire.  There  were  other  matters  besides  which  re 
quired  his  attention  before  he  could  start. 

In  Gombarov's  place  sat  a  much  older  docile-looking 
man  with  a  beard,  slightly  resembling  Gombarov.  This 
was  Gombarov's  brother,  lakov  Bogdanovitch,  anxious 
to  go  to  America  to  make  his  fortune,  which  made,  he 
would  send  for  his  family,  consisting  of  his  wife  and 
two  children.  lakov's  journey  was  being  paid  for  by 
the  more  fortunate  Simeon,  who  entrusted  to  him  the 
care  of  his  family  during  his  absence.  lakov  proved 
worse  than  useless.  His  knowledge  of  the  Talmud, 
which  might  have  earned  him  a  meal  and  a  night's  lodg 
ing  in  a  native  village,  was  hardly  the  thing  to  appeal 
to  a  German  official  train  guard,  or  hotel  clerk.  It  is 
true  he  made  lively  and  eloquent  gestures  with  his  hands, 
but  they  could  not  have  proved  more  futile  than  if  he 
had  his  arms  tied  in  a  strait- jacket.  He  only  aroused 
amusement  if  not  contempt  in  those  to  whom  he  tried 
to  make  himself  intelligible,  and  would  give  up  the  ef 
fort  by  cursing  the  stupid  goyim — gentiles — under  his 
breath,  in  good  Hebrew.  Gombarova  also  grew  con 
temptuous  of  him  and  often  thought:  "How  could  this 
man  and  her  husband  be  brothers?"  Leaving  her  baby 
in  the  charge  of  Raya  or  Dunya  she  would  leave  the 
train  compartment  or  the  station  waiting  room  and  go 
to  make  inquiries  in  German,  which  she  spoke  fairly 
well.  Vanya,  too,  proved  useful,  and  his  German  stood 
him  now  in  good  stead.  Indeed,  his  knowledge  of  Ger 
man  quite  astonished  one  fatherly  looking  station-mas 
ter,  who  asked  him  how  he  had  learnt  to  speak  so  well, 
and  patted  him  on  the  head  afterwards. 

A  curious  episode  occurred  at  Berlin. 
The  Gombarovs,  in  order  to  save  expense,  travelled 
part  of  the  way  thither  in  a  fourth-class  waggon,  which 


THE  LEAVE-TAKING— VANYA'S  DREAM    123 

is  more  or  less  like  the  ordinary  luggage  car,  except 
that  there  is  a  long  bench  against  the  wall  on  either  side, 
and  as  the  windows  are  rather  high,  the  passenger,  if 
he  happen  to  be  a  small  boy,  must  stand  up  on  this  bench 
in  order  to  look  out.  As  this  was  very  tiresome  Vanya 
saw  little  on  the  way  and  only  when  the  train  got  to 
Berlin  over  an  elevated  road  did  he  begin  to  look  with 
great  curiosity  at  what  was  going  on  outside ;  many  years 
afterward  he  only  remembered  the  neat  window  gardens 
and  the  shining  helmets  and  lances  of  the  soldiers,  but 
the  one  thing  he  vividly  remembered  was  a  seemingly 
slight  episode,  which  occurred  a  minute  or  two1  after  the 
Gombarovs  were  bundled  out  with  their  numerous  lug 
gage  from  the  car  on  to  the  platform. 

While  Gombarova  with  her  children  stood  around 
their  possessions  waiting  for  directions,  Vanya  wan 
dered  away  for  a  moment  from  the  rest.  And  as  he 
walked  along  and  looked  at  this  and  that  with  the  curi 
osity  of  a  country  child,  a  woman  who  wore  no  hat  and 
who,  for  some  reason,  appeared  to  Vanya  to  belong  to 
the  station  took  him  by  the  hand  and  saying  to  him  some 
thing  in  German  which  he  could  not  understand,  led  him 
to  a  door,  then  through  a  long  corridor,  paved  and  side- 
panelled  with  marble  slabs,  then  still  holding  Vanya  by 
the  hand  she  turned  a  corner  and  walked  through  an 
other  corridor.  Somewhat  alarmed,  Vanya  addressed 
her  nervously  in  German  as  to  where  she  was  taking 
him.  She  said  something,  but  again  Vanya  could  not 
understand  her.  Then  they  turned  another  corner,  and 
the  dream  he  had  had  on  the  night  he  had  lain  near  Marta 
suddenly  flashed  across  his  mind  and  also  the  thought 
of  his  agitated  mother  looking  for  him  on  the  platform. 
So  suddenly  wrenching  his  hand  from  the  woman's  he 
began  to  run  frantically  in  the  direction  from  which 
he  had  come,  but  the  woman  made  no  attempt  to  pur 
sue  him.  On  the  way  he  bumped  his  head  against  one 


124  THE  MASK 

of  the  corners  of  a  turning,  and  there  was  a  swelling 
over  one  of  his  temples  when  he  reached  his  mother, 
who  was  indeed  frantic  over  Vanya's  disappearance  and, 
with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  was  talking  excitedly  to  a  sta 
tion  official  about  it.  She  gave  Vanya  a  scolding,  and 
scolded  him  even  more  upon  hearing  what  had  happened, 
and  Vanya,  thoroughly  subdued  and  frightened  by  his 
experience,  said  not  a  word,  nor  did  he  cry.  But  the 
memory  of  it  remained  with  him,  and  like  many  other 
things  that  he  remembered  it  sometimes  seemed  to  him 
a  dream,  like  the  other  dream — or  was  the  other  a  real 
ity,  no  less  real  than  this? 

Yes,  the  Berlin  episode  was  a  reality,  and  Vanya — 
that  is,  John  Gombarov — many  years  afterwards,  thought 
of  it,  when  he  did  think  of  it,  with  smiling  eyes,  which, 
searching  distances  of  time  and  space,  saw  himself  a 
funny  small  boy  running  beside  the  unknown,  his  hand 
in  hers.  Who  was  she,  and  what  did  she  want  with 
him?  What  would  have  happened  if  he  had  gone  along 
with  her?  He  would  never  know.  His  smile  remained 
immovable  for  a  long  time — like  a  mask's  smile. 

Other  things  happened — the  usual  things.  The  green 
of  England — the  green  he  grew  to  love  later — flashed 
by  in  a  broad  ribbon  as  he  sat  in  the  train,  and  it  remained 
in  his  memory,  a  splash  of  green  on  a  painter's  palette. 
But  the  many  other  things  mixed  themselves  up  tortu 
ously  and  confusedly  as  in  a  nightmare  or  a  Futurist 
picture. 

The  North  Sea  crossing  was  stormy,  as  was  also  the 
fifteen  days'  journey  from  Liverpool  to  Philadelphia,  in 
a  boat  which  was  to  carry  back  cattle.  The  last  night 
on  shipboard  he  had  a  dream : 

He  saw  himself  floating  in  a  rough  sea  on  a  raft. 
There  were  others  with  him,  clinging  desperately,  swept 
by  the  seas.  The  raft  rose  on  each  huge  billow,  and 
each  time  it  came  down  some  one  was  swept  overboard ; 


THE  LEAVE-TAKING— VANYA'S  DREAM     125 

there  was  always  one  less.  And  at  last  he  was  alone. 
And  still  the  billows  swept  on,  and  the  raft  rose  and  fell 
on  them  with  a  cradling  motion.  He  was  in  sight  of 
land.  When  would  he  reach  it?  Would  he  ever  reach 
it?  He  was  getting  closer  and  closer.  At  last  with  a 
sudden  sweep  quite  near  the  shore,  the  raft  rose  on  a 
gathered  wave,  so  that  from  the  curved  topmost  crest 
of  it  Vanya  could  see  the  stones  below  him,  and  as  he 
felt  he  was  about  to  be  dashed  upon  them  he  gave  a  loud 
frantic  cry,  his  heart  jumped  with  fear,  and  he  woke  up. 
He  heard  his  mother  ask : 

"What  is  the  matter,  Vanya,  darling?" 


PART  II:    AMERICA 
To  H.  D. 


THE  TRANSPLANTING 

O  to  struggle  against  great  odds,  to  meet  enemies  undaunted ! 
To  be  entirely  alone  with  them,  to  find  how  much  one  can  stand. 

— WALT  WHITMAN. 


PART  II 
CHAPTER  I 

A  PRELUDE,  IN  WHICH  A  CERTAIN  WARNING  IS  REPEATED 

"!T  was  a  city  of  stone.  Stone  and  brick.  The 
houses  were  of  bright  red  brick,  each  brick  marked  off 
from  the  other  by  a  strip  of  white  cement ;  the  pavements 
were  also  of  brick,  indented  here  and  there  through 
rough  usage  with  an  occasional  hole  where  a  brick  had 
been  removed  or  broken;  the  streets  were  paved  with 
rough  rounded  cobble  and  the  carts  and  the  drays  went 
over  it  jolting  and  rattling  and  left  in  their  wake  a  slowly 
settling  trail  of  stone  dust.  The  people,  too,  I  soon  dis 
covered,  at  any  rate,  many  of  them,  had  hearts  of  stone." 

"Come,  come,  Gombarov,"  said  Gombarov's  vis-a-vis 
over  a  table  in  an  A. B.C.  shop  in  London.  "You  mustn't 
exaggerate,  you  mustn't  let  your  personal  prejudices  run 
away  with  you.  It  couldn't  have  been  as  bad  as  all 
that.  And  all  cities  are  of  stone  as  far  as  that  goes. 
Can  there  be  anything  more  stone  than  London?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Gombarov  with  a  note  of  tol 
erant  irony  in  his  voice,  "it  makes  all  the  difference  in 
the  world  as  to  whose  back  came  in  contact  with  the 
stones,  yours  or  mine.  It  happened  to  be  mine.  That's 
the  sort  of  reception  I  received  in  the  City  of  Brotherly 
Love.  You  would  say  that  there  were  extenuating  cir 
cumstances  in  that  I  first  appeared  in  the  streets  in  my 
Russian  costume,  fresh  from  the  Russian  woods,  but 
then  remember  that  we  had  first  stopped  over  in  Liver- 

129 


&30  THE  MASK 

pool  for  three  weeks  waiting  for  our  boat,  and  though 
we  lived  there  in  a  hotel  bordering  on  the  slums  and  the 
streets  were  full  of  noisy  and  ragged  children,  yet  if  I 
was  sometimes  chaffed  I  was  never  bodily  molested. 
But  I  no  sooner  appeared  in  the  streets  of  Philadelphia 
than  a  crowd  of  boys  gathered  round  me  and  followed 
me,  and  shouted  after  me  words  I  did  not  then  under 
stand — one  word,  above  others,  sounded  and  resounded 
in  my  ears;  it  was  the  word  'sheeny,'  meaning  'Jew/  as 
I  discovered  later.  I  walked  on  in  fear  and  trembling. 
I  walked  on  faster  and  faster  to  get  away  from  my  tor 
mentors,  but  they  followed  me.  On  the  way  I  met  many 
men  and  women,  and  I  thought  some  of  them  would 
take  pity  on  me  and  protect  me,  but  they  only  looked  at 
me  and  laughed.  At  last  I  burst  into  tears  and  began 
to  run,  and  quite  as  suddenly  a  lot  of  missiles  began  to 
fly  about  me,  something  hard  and  sharp  struck  my  back. 
I  fell,  got  up  again,  and  ran  on  as  fast  as  my  legs  could 
carry  me.  That  was  my  first  contact  with  humanity 
after  leaving  the  Russian  woods,  and  I  think  I  can  un 
derstand  very  well  now  how  a  man  must  feel  when  he  has 
fallen  unaware  into  a  jungle  and  suddenly  finds  himself 
shied  at  by  the  monkeys  with  cocoanuts.  And  that  was 
only  the  beginning.  So  you  see,  I  was  quite  right  in 
saying  it  was  a  stone  city." 

"Why  do  you  say  'was'?"  asked  Gombarov's  com 
panion.  "As  far  as  I  know,  Philadelphia  is  still  on; 
the  map." 

"I  say  'was/  "  explained  Gombarov,  "because  it  does 
not  seem  to  me  now,  looking  backward  on  my  life  there, 
like  a  place,  but  like  a  nightmare,  like  something  that 
has  happened  to  me  and  is  not  likely  to  happen  again. 
It  'was'  because  it  now  seems  like  a  terrible  unreality, 
and  it  exists  for  me  no  more  than  a  past  delirious  ill 
ness  exists  for  me,  though  there  is  this  difference :  I  can 
remember  much  if  not  everything  that  I  saw  and  heard 


A  CERTAIN  WARNING  IS  REPEATED       131 

in  my  delirium.  I  know  that  you  think  I  exaggerate, 
but  you  must  bear  in  mind  that  I  came  to  this  place  of 
stone  and  iron  from  quiet,  far  away  woods  and  mead 
ows,  and  my  whole  being  was  permeated  with  the  rustle 
of  trees,  with  the  gentle,  monotonous  crooning  of  Rus 
sian  folk  songs  and  my  eyes  had  been  used  only  to  sun 
flowers  and  poppies  and  golden  cornfields.  Imagine  to 
yourself  such  a  being,  a  child,  touched  with  brooding 
and  with  a  sense  of  introspection  thrust  suddenly  into 
a  place  so  violent  in  movement,  so  strident  in  sound,  so 
teeming  with  people  and  commerce  as  an  American  city; 
if  one  of  God's  own  cherubim  were  dropped  on  earth 
suddenly,  his  predicament  could  not  have  been  more 
startling  than  that  of  this  child.  Imagine  to  yourself 
further  the  need  of  this  child  to  enter  almost  as  suddenly 
into  the  struggle  for  existence  in  circumstances  so  ludi 
crously  tragic — only  then  you  may  have  some  idea  of  the 
will  that  is  at  the  root  of  human  life.  You  will  perhaps 
say  that  as  my  conclusions  about  America  are  due  to 
my  personal  experience  your  statement  about  my  preju 
dice  is  proven.  My  own  opinion  is  to  the  contrary.  It 
seems  to  me  that  only  he  can  judge  who  approaches  a 
subject  with  a  perfect  innocence  of  eye,  and  with  a  mind 
and  heart  as  yet  untainted  by  the  environment  upon 
which  he  expresses  judgment/' 

"That  is  all  very  well,"  persisted  Gombarov's  com 
panion,  "but  it  doesn't  explain  your  first  statement.  In 
what  way  is  Philadelphia  or  New  York  more  a  city  of 
stone  than  London?  It  seems  to  me,  you  can  wear  out 
shoe  leather  as  quickly  here  as  in  any  other  place." 

"Your  question  is  a  reasonable  one,  and  I  am  prepared 
to  answer  it,"  rejoined  Gombarov.  "Your  last  statement 
is  indeed  an  excellent  hook  to  hang  my  answer  on,  for 
though  it  is  true  that  you  can  wear  out  shoe  leather  in 
London  as  quickly  as  in  New  York,  yet  I  am  foolish 
enough  to  maintain  that  shoe  leather  is  not  such  an 


132  THE  MASK 

intrinsic  part  of  our  being  that  we  cannot  afford  to  part 
with  it  from  time  to  time,  as  long  as  our  more  sensitive 
parts  are  not  affected.  The  real  trouble  with  New  York 
is  not  that  it  wears  out  our  shoe  leather  but  that  it  tends 
to  make  our  sensitive  skins  tougher  than  any  shoe  leather 
and  not  less  impregnable  against  all  finer  feelings  than 
against  stone.  Men  become  like  limpets,  shutting  them 
selves  out  equally  from  danger  and  light." 

"I  am  beginning  to  understand  what  you  are  driving 
at,"  interrupted  Gombarov's  friend.  "You  are  appar 
ently  trying  to  make  a  distinction  between  stone  and 
stone,  and  I  am  curious  enough  to  know  what  that  dis 
tinction  is." 

"I  was  coming  to  that,"  said  Gombarov  quietly.  "In 
the  first  place,  I  use  the  word  stone  both  literally  and 
figuratively.  London  stone  is  Portland  stone.  It  belongs 
to  England  as  marble  belonged  to  Greece.  It  is  at  one 
with  the  soil,  the  atmosphere,  the  character  of  the  people. 
And  being  part  of  a  oneness  the  London  stones  do  not 
cry  out  at  you.  All  things  blendes  in  a  tone  painting. 
It  took  an  American  painter,  Whistler,  to  discover  that. 
Again  you  see  the  value  of  the  innocent  alien  eye.  But 
the  native  painter,  the  Dionysian  Englishman  Turner, 
must  react  from  the  grey  and  beautiful  mystery;  and  the 
world  of  revelry  so  completely  shut  off  within  himself 
bursts  out  irresistibly  on  canvas  in  great  splashes  of 
primal  yellows  and  orgies  of  fire,  like  suns  in  the  making. 
But  if  Portland  stone  belongs  to  London,  London  has  a 
way  of  making  everything  alien  her  own,  be  it  man  or 
marble.  It  is  as  if  all  of  London  were  plunged  in  some 
curious  chemical  solution,  which,  if  it  did  not  harden 
men,  humanised  as  by  some  magic  the  stones.  Strictly 
speaking,  there  are  no  Londoners,  yet  everyone  who 
comes  to  London  and  stays  here  any  length  of  time  be 
comes  a  Londoner,  though  he  may  have  come  from  the 
other  end  of  the  earth.  London  with  all  its  character 


A  CERTAIN  WARNING  IS  REPEATED      133 

is  strangely  impersonal,  like  the  sea  itself.  No  place 
is  more  beloved  of  the  exile.  But  to  go  on  with  my  com 
parison.  There  are  few  sharp  edges  here,  the  streets 
are  mostly  rounded  at  the  crossings,  giving  the  place  a 
sense  of  continuity,  vehicles  are  not  forced  to  turn 
with  sharp  jerks.  The  'lights  of  London'  suggests  a 
vast  steady  radiance  like  the  aura  of  a  planet,  the  'rum 
ble  of  London'  hints  at  a  mood  steady  and  impressive 
like  a  silence  so  that  even  a  silence-loving  literary  worker 
may  have  a  room  near  the  Strand  and  work  in  perfect 
obliviousness  of  the  world  around  him;  again  he  may  live 
five  minutes'  walk  from  Piccadilly  yet  have  that  strange 
sense  of  being  a  thousand  miles  from  the  metropolis  of 
the  world.  But  in  New  York  you  have  the  so-called 
'great  white  way'  and  the  sense  of  its  cutting  across  the 
city — a  canal  of  light,  which  breaks  at  Forty-Second 
street  like  a  torrent  over  a  dam;  at  irregular  intervals 
an  overhead  train  shoots  like  a  noisy  gigantic  shuttle 
across  a  loom  that  has  suddenly  gone  out  of  order,  and 
generally  speaking  the  noises  are  sudden,  sharp,  screechy, 
acting  upon  your  thoughts  like  a  wicked  child  with  new 
trumpet  and  drum;  the  buildings  themselves  reach  up 
ward — huge,  uneven,  jagged  teeth,  eager  after  the 
manner  of  Babel  to  bite  into  heaven,  yet  never  so  far 
away  from  it.  Not  that  all  this  has  not  a  certain  beauty, 
vulgar  and  diabolic,  like  an  animated  rasp-voiced  chan- 
sonnette,  acting  forwardly,  flaunting  her  jewels  and  her 
vulgar  charms  at  every  new-comer,  who  learns  quickly 
to  know  all  her  whims  and  wishes  and  every  nook  and 
part  of  her  until  she  has  nothing  more  to  reveal,  and  a 
man,  unless  he  revolt  against  her  persistent  demands  on 
his  body,  .soul  and  purse,  becomes  in  the  end  a  debauchee 
from  sheer  habit.  I  have  just  mentioned  the  purse,  for 
the  purse  is  important  if  one  would  enjoy  this  harlot 
among  cities,  whose  great  lyric  is 


134  THE  MASK 

"  flf  you  haven't  any  money, 
You  needn't  come  around  .  .  .  . ' 

But  London  tries  men,  makes  men  woo  her,  and  reveals 
only  gradually  her  seductions  to  those  deserving  of  her, 
and  has  not  yet  found  a  lover  to  whom  she  has  completely 
surrendered  herself.  After  all,  she  has  permitted 
Whistler  no  more  than  to  kiss  her  hand.  No  one  has  as 
yet  painted  a  picture  or  written  a  book  worthy  of  her. 
As  for  money,  '  'tis  trash.'  I  know  a  young  man  with 
little  more  than  genius  to  his  account,  to  whom  all  doors 
are  open,  he  could  go  among  peeresses  if  he  liked  and  if 
it  weren't  such  a  waste  of  time.  That  absurd  contrivance 
'Seeing  New  York'  or  'Seeing  Philadelphia,'  a  motor 
car  designed  to  carry  several  dozen  passengers  who  are 
aptly  named  'rubber  necks/  is  impossible  here;  there  is 
no  seeing  London.  If  you  stay  here  a  year  and  keep 
your  wits  about  you  you  will  begin  to  be  cognisant  of  the 
gradually  unfolding  charms  of  this  most  wonderful  crea 
ture,  and  only  then  when  you  have  gone  away  from  her 
for  a  spell  will  you  learn  how  completely  she  has  capti 
vated  you,  and  thereafter  wherever  fortune  take  you  the 
call  of  London  remains  in  your  heart  like  the  voice  of 
some  terrorless  sea,  of  enchanting  mystery,  of  a  benign 
sphinx,  whose  fingers  reach  out  to  you  in  moments  of 
distress  and,  running  through  your  hair,  soothe  your 
feverish  exile  thoughts  as  by  magic,  though  as  yet  you 
have  not  seen  her  face." 

"I  am  an  Englishman,"  interrupted  once  more  Gom- 
barov's  companion,  "yet  frankly,  I  do  not  see  why  you 
are  so  infatuated  with  London.  To  my  way  of  thinking, 
with  all  due  respect  to  you,  if  cities  are  to  be  compared 
to  women,  I  should  compare  London  to  a  flabby,  amor 
phous  female,  sluttish  in  dress  and  habit,  foggy  in  her 
complexion,  one  of  her  eyes  blackened,  stodgy  in  her  con 
versation,  sloppy  in  her  sentimentality,  a  depraved 


A  CERTAIN  WARNING  IS  REPEATED       135 

creature  half  reeling  her  way  home  from  the  pub  to  feed 
her  half  starved  brats  on  milk  tainted  with  detestable 
bitter.  As  for  me,  I  prefer  Italy  or  Paris." 

Gombarov  laughed  at  this  extravagant  outburst  of  his 
friend,  but  quickly  readjusting  his  face  into  a  thoughtful, 
almost  motionless  mask,  he  went  on  dreamily  as  if  not 
he  spoke  but  a  spirit,  a  spirit  which  had  taken  lodgment 
in  his  body  as  in  a  kind  of  shell : 

"You  are  the  traditional  Englishman  with  the  Italian 
sun  in  your  heart.  And  as  you  are  an  artist,  it  is  well 
that  you  should  contain  this  sun  within  yourself.  It  is 
the  Englishman's  creative  impulse.  It  is  this  sun  trying 
to  burst  the  bounds  of  the  body,  coming  in  clash  with  the 
outer  fog  and  the  rain  which  'raineth  every  day/  that  has 
made  your  Shakespeare,  who  has  laid  most  of  his  plots 
in  Italy,  though  he  had  never  been  there.  It  is  the  same 
sun  that  has  made  your  Turner,  your  Browning,  your 
Byron,  your  Shelley  and  your  Rossetti.  Italy  is  the  Eng 
lishman's  spiritual  home.  And  that  is  the  fine  thing 
about  London,  the  supreme  test  of  her  creative  love,  for 
which  she  has  sacrificed  herself.  For  she  has  made  her 
self  unlovely  to  the  Englishman  that  he  might  create; 
she  has  turned  his  eyes,  as  it  were,  against  herself,  like 
those  cruel  Neapolitans  who  pierce  the  eyes  of  their 
canaries  that  they  may  sing  the  more  beautifully.  But 
she  is  not  really  like  that.  She  is  cruel  to  herself,  for  the 
Englishman's  eye  turns  inwardly,  he  is  dazzled  by  his 
own  sun,  so'  that  when  he  turns  his  eyes  away  from  it 
again  toward  London,  London  seems  to  him  like  a 
wretched  blur.  And  here  is  the  strange  contradiction: 
she  offers  a  home  to  the  alien,  yet  the  artistic  English 
man  feels  himself  an  alien  here  and  never  stops  yearning 
for  Rome  or  for  Greece.  True,  there  is  Paris,  but  I 
somehow  can't  associate  the  Englishman  with  Paris,  but 
with  more  remote  times  and  places.  What  would  Blake 
-do  without  his  Jerusalem,  Browning  without  his  Florence 


136  THE  MASK 

and  Swinburne  without  his  Athens?  And  yet  Paris  is 
adorable,  and  to  him  whom  she  loves  she  is  both  model 
for  his  art  and  mistress  for  his  manhood.  She  is  indeed 
Goya's  'Maya/  Maya  veiled  and  Maya  unveiled;  veiled 
and  very  beautiful  to  the  public,  and  to  the  stranger; 
naked  and  more  beautiful  to  the  French  artist,  for  who 
but  a  Frenchman,  with  his  clear  vision,  his  mellifluous 
speech,  his  elegant  manners,  his  unwavering  passion,  his 
genius  for  love — or  shall  we  say  love  making  ?— can  hope 
to  win  the  favours  of  this  most  beautiful  and  exclusive 
of  all  courtesans,  to  the  hem  of  whose  dress  self-exiled 
Americans,  with  all  the  Parisian  affectations  and  with 
none  of  the  Parisian  genius,  cling  in  desperate  and  for 
lorn  hope.  If  they  have  money  she  takes  it,  without  so 
much  as  a  'thank  you';  if  they  are  women  she  will  sell 
them  some  of  the  secrets  of  her  boudoir,  which  she  ex 
poses  seductively  in  the  shops;  if  they  are  painters  she 
will  admit  them  to  the  galleries  in  her  apartments  stacked 
with  works  of  art  presented  to  her  by  favoured  admir 
ers,  though  certain  doors  remain  discreetly  closed ;  if  they 
are  literary  men,  she  will  give  them,  with  infinite  pains 
on  their  part — for  speech  is  not  the  universal  art  that 
painting,  music  or  sculpture  is — crumbs  of  ideas  soaked 
plentifully  in  black  coffee,  wine  or  absinthe;  they  learn 
bad  French  and  their  English  suffers ;  there  grows  up  in 
their  poisoned  and  benighted  souls  a  contempt  for  Lon 
don,  which  is  the  rod  and  the  staff  of  all  who  write 
English." 

"It  seems  to  me  there  is  much  truth  in  what  you  say, 
Gombarov,  and  I  am  rather  amused  that  you  should  put 
the  matter  in  such  clear  sensual  images,  and  if  I  did  not 
know  you  better  I  should  call  you  a  downright  sensual 
ist.  But  there  is  a  strange  idealism  in  your  sensuality." 

"The  two  are  inseparable,"  observed  Gombarov.  "All 
true  idealism  proceeds  from  sensuality  and  seeks  its  ex 
pression  in  refined  sensuality.  In  religious  men  and 


A  CERTAIN  WARNING  IS  REPEATED 

artists  this  sensuality  strives  ever  toward  chastity.  The 
monk  in  his  small  clean  cell  performing  a  genuflexion 
before  a  small  image  of  the  Immaculate  Virgin,  flanked 
by  two  large  candles,  is  one  form  of  this  expression. 
Botticelli,  drawing  in  Trimavera'  his  pregnant  women 
in  chaste  outlines  against  a  background  of  dream,  is 
another.  Again  you  find  chastity  running  to  sensuality, 
otherwise  how  can  you  explain  Christianity  accepting 
Solomon's  'Song'  as  a  tribute  to  itself?  And  yet,  in 
spite  of  this  poem's  sensuality,  its  outlines  are  chaste  and 
austere ;  every  expression  is  an  image,  clear,  hard,  hewn 
out,  edged  and  rounded,  there  is  no  cosmic  froth  in  it, 
no  atmosphere,  which  is  an  abominable  modern  inven 
tion,  rather  does  every  image  give  out  its  own  radiance 
and  colour  like  a  precious  stone.  And  the  curious  thing 
is  that  the  greater  the  love,  the  more  does  it  tend  toward 
abstraction,  the  more  precise  becomes  the  image  in  which 
it  is  expressed.  And  in  the  measure  that  I  love  London 
I  see  her  more  and  more  clearly  as  the  chastely  outlined 
queen,  silver-girdled  by  the  Thames,  of  the  kingdom  of 
creative  chaos,  beside  whom  Paris  is  an  obviously  beau 
tiful  woman,  and  New  York  a  parvenu  and  a  harlot 
ambitious  to  become  courtesan  through  indiscriminate 
patronage  of  art." 

Gombarov  stopped  speaking  and  went  on  looking 
dreamily  into  the  distance.  Then  his  friend  suddenly 
recalled  him  to  himself: 

"You  began  by  speaking  of  Philadelphia  and  your  ex 
perience  there.  What  sort  of  woman  is  Philadelphia?" 

Gombarov  knit  his  eye-brows  and  made  a  wry  face, 
but  did  not  respond  at  once.  He  appeared  to  be  in  a 
difficulty,  his  mind  seemed  to  be  wrestling  to  get  a  hold 
on  a  clear  image. 

"You  have  given  me  a  poser,"  he  said  at  last  slowly. 
"You  see  it's  this  way.  Philadelphia  has  not  the  mystery 
of  London,  nor  the  charm  of  Paris,  nor  the  blatant  har- 


138  THE  MASK 

lotry  of  New  York,  nor  the  begrimed  industry  of  Liver 
pool,  yet  she  is  not  without  some  mystery,  without  some 
charm,  some  harlotry,  some  grime.  But  now  I  have  it! 
I  should  say  she  was  a  dowdy  housewife,  who  might  be 
charming  and  respectable  if  she  did  not  so  neglect  her 
self.  She  has  a  beautiful  girdle  in  the  Delaware,  but  it 
is  frippery  at  the  edges,  unbordered  by  trees  or  embank 
ments.  She  has  a  gem  of  priceless  value  in  the  several 
art  collections  stacked  in  private  houses  and  she  could 
display  this  gem  if  she  would  provide  a  setting  for  it, 
that  is  a  gallery,  yet  she  tarries  because  of  the  expense 
of  this  trifle.  Her  own  servants  rob  her,  wherefore  she 
has  been  called  the  most  corrupt  city  of  the  world.  She 
spends  much  of  her  time  chattering  over  thimble-sized 
tea-cups  and  in  trying  to  keep  a  decayed  family  tree  in 
bloom  instead  of  looking  to  her  young  saplings.  She 
has  built  with  lamentable  slowness  and  at  a  preposterous 
cost  an  ugly  town  hall  and  has  placed  on  top  of  its  five- 
hundred  feet  tower  a  statue  of  William  Penn  with  his 
hands  hanging  down  at  his  sides.  If  this  statue  could 
only  come  to  life  it  would  wring  its  hands  to  heaven, 
and  receiving  no  response  to  its  prayer  it  would  turn  on 
its  pedestal,  spit  to  all  four  sides  upon  the  town  and  hurl 
itself  below  in  its  despair.  The  fact  is,  the  town  was 
unfortunate  at  its  birth,  for  the  architect  who  planned  it 
cut  the  streets  in  checker-board  fashion,  and  it  has  con 
tinued  to  expand  on  the  same  square  lines.  Nothing  can 
present  a  more  dismal  sight  than  West  Philadelphia  as 
you  look  down  on  it  from  the  overhead  railway  on 
Market  street.  You  see  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
little  stone  houses  all  alike,  placed  in  endless  rows,  sep 
arated  only  by  long  straight  and  narrow  streets  and 
little  square  back-yards,  giving  the  place  an  aspect  of  a 
huge,  artificial  honeyless  bee-hive,  all  so  deadening  to 
young  imaginations  and  impressing  upon  young  brains 
not  those  interesting  convolutions  which  make  London 


A  CERTAIN  WARNING  IS  REPEATED       139 

like  a  great  fascinating  throbbing  brain  but  a  dull  square 
pattern  in  which  each  cell  is  like  the  cell  of  a  mausoleum, 
containing  its  urn  of  dead  ashes." 

"I  notice  it  hasn't  deadened  your  imagination,"  said 
Gombarov's  friend. 

"No,  very  likely  it  has  enriched  mine,"  said  Gombarov, 
ignoring  the  insinuating  irony  in  his  companion's  voice. 
"But  that  is  because  the  experience  came  after  my  boy 
hood  years  in  the  Russian  woods,  and  the  contrast  made 
America  seems  like  a  hell  to  me.  Once  you  recognise  your 
environment  as  hell,  you  can  use  that  hell's  fire  to  set 
your  imagination  aflame.  Hell  is  always  imagination. 
It  was  only  this  clash  between  the  inner  and  the  outer 
world  which  saved  me.  And  in  this  clash  the  wood  god 
triumphed  over  Pluto." 

"The  manageress  is  beginning  to  look  at  us,"  inter 
posed  Gombarov's  friend.  "That  means  we  are  occupy 
ing  valuable  space." 

"Don't  speak  of  it,"  exclaimed  Gombarov.  "It  re 
minds  me  too  much  of  New  York.  I  am  afraid  London 
is  becoming  Americanised." 

"Well,  come,  let  us  go  to  my  studio,  where  you  can 
tell  me  more  about  that  extraordinary  place,  called  Am 
erica." 

"Right-o!"  said  Gombarov,  rising  from  his  place. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   OLD    MANTLE    OF   AHASUERUS    DESCENDS    UPON 
YOUNG   VANYA 

,  AFTER  Vanya's  first  encounter  with  humanity  in  the 
streets  of  Philadelphia — described  many  years  afterwarc 
to  his  English  friend,  who  accepted  the  narrative  as  ar 
exaggerated  and  prejudiced  statement  of  an  unhappy 
personal  experience — Vanya's  mother,  to  his  great  joy 
decided  to  buy  him  a  suit,  which  she  did  with  not  a  fevi 
qualms,  for  Gombarov  was  away,  her  ready  capital  small 
the  family  large,  and  the  need  for  economy  pressing. 

The  new  suit  was  an  event  in  Vanya's  life.  He  wa! 
proud  of  it,  and  particularly  of  its  many  pockets;  eacl: 
separate  pocket  gave  him  as  much  pleasure  as  though  i 
were  a  nest  which  contained  a  bird's  egg.  He  felt  im 
portant  as  he  strutted  up  and  down  the  room,  his  hand: 
in  his  trousers  pockets,  as  he  had  seen  his  stepfather  do 
Very  likely,  he  realised,  as  yet  vaguely,  that  pockets  im 
plied  possessions,  therefore  power,  therefore  a  shielc 
against  such  annoyance  as  the  simple,  pocketless  gar 
ment  had  subjected  him  to  the  day  before.  Something 
urged  him  to  put  this  as  yet  subconscious  idea  to  the  test 
He  wanted  to  parade  his  new  garment  in  the  street.  At 
he  was  going  through  the  door  his  mother  admonishec 
him: 

"See  that  you  don't  soil  your  suit/' 

The  street  was  alive  with  children,  who  played  in  pain 
or  in  groups  or  scampered  in  divers  directions.  Vanyc 
had  not  far  to  go  before  he  came  upon  a  group  of  boys 

140 


THE  OLD  MANTLE  OF  AHASUERUS   141 

some  of  whom  he  recognised  as  his  persecutors  of  yes 
terday.  And  in  spite  of  his  new  suit  they  knew  Vanya 
almost  at  the  same  instant.  They  left  their  play  and 
surrounded  him.  One  of  them  walked  up  to  Vanya,  felt 
Vanya's  new  suit  with  his  fingers  and  said  something  to 
his  fellows,  whereat  they  laughed  derisively.  Another 
walked  up  to  Vanya,  and  felt  his  suit  as  the  other  did, 
only  that  he  pinched  Vanya  through  his  jacket  at  the 
same  time.  They  began  to  exchange  remarks  and  to 
laugh.  Vanya  stood  there  paralysed,  his  heart  beating, 
perspiration  running  down  his  forehead.  Something 
clutched  at  his  throat,  tears  almost  welled  in  his  eyes, 
but  he  somehow  with  a  desperate  effort  held  them  back. 
Then  one  of  the  boys  pointed  to  his  hat  and  another  to 
his  shoes,  at  which  the  rest  set  up  a  derisive  shout  and 
held  their  sides  with  laughter  as  they  turned  on  their 
heels.  Vanya  then  realised  that  they  were  laughing  at  his 
Russian  hat  and  shoes  and  that  his  American  pockets 
were  not  enough,  since  he  could  hide  neither  his  head  nor 
his  feet  in  them.  He  started  to  run,  but  one  of  the  boys 
caught  him  by  his  arm,  another  snatched  his  hat,  and 
when  he  tried  to  seize  it  the  boy  tossed  it  to  another  boy, 
who  in  his  turn  tossed  it  to  another,  and  this  manoeuvre 
kept  Vanya  running  frantically  from  boy  to  boy  in  the 
vain  effort  to  get  his  hat. 

Some  of  the  passers-by  stopped  to  look  in  evident 
enjoyment  of  the  "game.."  They  had  been  boys  them 
selves  once,  and  one  or  two  looked  as  if  they  were  rather 
ashamed  that  they  were  too  old  to  join  in.  Indeed  they 
rather  resented  an  old  Jew  with  a  long  beard  when 
he  attempted  to  interfere,  and  they  joined  the  boys  when 
they  gave  the  usual  cry  accorded  to  bearded  Jews : 

"B-z-z-z-z-z!" 

This  was  followed  by  a  guffaw  as  one  of  the  boys 
darting  nimbly  past  the  Jew  gave  a  sharp  tug  at  his 
beard  and  ran. 


142  THE  MASK 

Vanya,  alarmed  at  this  bold  procedure  and  afraid  of 
possible  hurt,  made  off  as  fast  as  his  feet  could  carry 
him,  leaving  his  hat  as  booty  in  the  hands  of  the  boys. 

Vanya  came  home  crying.  He  related  all  that  had 
happened  and  was  reprimanded  for  losing  his  hat. 

"Something  of  the  sort  is  always  happening  to  you/' 
said  his  mother,  recalling  to  him  his  previous  loss  of 
the  fez. 

"They  would  have  taken  away  my  shoes  too,"  re 
torted  Vanya,  "if  they  weren't  fastened  so  tightly  on  my 
feet.  And  now  I  shan't  go  out  of  the  house  until  I  get 
a  new  hat  and  new  shoes." 

Nothing  would  move  Vanya  from  this  decision.  His 
mother  was  reluctant;  there  was  nothing  left  to  do  but 
to  get  the  hat  and  shoes.  She  did  this  that  same  evening. 

Now  Vanya  felt  thoroughly  Americanised.  Now  he 
felt  the  boys  in  the  street  would  respect  him.  There  was 
happiness  for  him  that  he  looked  like  others,  all  the  more 
since  that  appeared  to  be  the  best  means  for  safety. 

Next  morning  Vanya  once  more  set  out  proudly,  sure 
that  his  new  guise  would  prevent  his  being  molested  and 
yet  trembling  at  the  thought  of  his  last  two  encounters. 
He  walked  quite  far  without  being  stopped  by  anyone, 
though  he  passed  a  number  of  boys.  It  is  true  he  felt 
apprehensive  whenever  they  looked  at  him,  for  it  seemed 
to  him  that  they  looked  at  him  rather  doubtfully,  where 
at  he  increased  his  pace.  Still,  he  rejoiced  at  the  immu 
nity  he  had  enjoyed  so  far,  and  was  congratulating  him 
self  on  his  good  fortune  at  the  very  moment  that  he  was 
entering  the  Italian  neighbourhood.  As  Vanya  did  not 
know  an  Italian  from  a  Hottentot,  the  different  appear 
ance  of  the  people  interested  him,  and  as  he  walked,  his 
hands  in  his  side-pockets,  his  shoulders  hunched,  he 
looked  curiously  at  the  women  carrying  bundles  of  wood 
on  their  heads  without  the  aid  of  their  hands  and  at  the 
strange  fruits  displayed  in  the  windows.  Soon  he  came 


THE  OLD  MANTLE  OF  AHASUERUS   143 

(Upon  two  hatless,  barefoot  boys,  who,  crouching  on  the 
I  pavement,  were  playing  a  game  with  small  round  stones. 
Vanya  had  never  seen  a  game  of  marbles  before  and  so 
he  passed  by  lingeringly.  On  their  part  the  two  Italian 
urchins  seemed  all  of  a  sudden  sharply  aware  of  Vanya's 
presence,  for  one  of  them  jumped  up,  seized  Vanya  by 
the  arm,  and  said  something  which  Vanya  did  not  under 
stand  but  which  was  undoubtedly  a  demand  of  some 
sort.  Vanya  shook  his  head  and  said  tremblingly : 

"I  no  understand/' 

"Shell  out !"  repeated  the  boy,  pointing  now  to  a  mar 
ble,  now  to  Vanya's  pockets. 

Vanya  suddenly  understood  the  nature  of  the  boy's 
demand. 

"I  no  have,"  replied  Vanya. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  the  boy  was  not  satisfied  with 
the  answer,  for  as  he  still  held  on  to  Vanya  he  proceeded 
to  feel  Vanya's  pockets  with  his  free  hand.  Disappointed 
in  his  search,  he  was  about  to  let  Vanya  go,  but  recon 
sidered,  and,  thrusting  his  face  forward  toward  Vanya's, 
said  something  full  of  menace. 

Vanya's  heart  sank.  He  feared  the  boy  would  snatch 
his  new  hat.  A  desperate  courage  was  born  in  Vanya  at 
the  thought  of  this  possible  calamity.  Tears  had  just 
come  into  his  eyes,  then  with  a  sudden  vigorous  move 
ment  he  wrenched  himself  from  the  boy's  hold,  and  no 
less  quickly  and  vigorously  he  thrust  his  two  open  hands 
forward  and  gave  the  boy  a  push ;  then,  without  waiting 
td  see  the  result  of  his  manoeuvre,  ran  as  fast  as  his  legs 
could  carry  him,  as  yesterday,  as  the  day  before  yester- 
,day.  The  boy,  getting  on  his  feet,  for  Vanya's  unex 
pected  attack  felled  him,  ran  in  pursuit  of  Vanya,  in 
which  he  was  joined  by  his  companion,  who  had  been  sit 
ting  on  the  pavement,  a  witness  to  the  whole  performance. 
For  some  time  Vanya  was  conscious  of  their  being  hot 
on  his  heels,  at  one  time  the  fist  of  one  almost  grazed  one 


144  THE  MASK 

of  his  shoulders,  but  in  the  end  he  was  relieved  to  see? 
them  give  up  pursuit.  He  kept  on  running  for  some  time, 
in  fear  that  they  would  resume  it. 

Vanya  told  no  one  at  home  about  his  adventure. 

"Vanya,"  said  his  mother  the  next  day,  "why  do  you 
sit  moping  in  the  house?  Why  don't  you  go  out  and 
play?  To-morrow  you  begin  going  to  school." 

Vanya  went  out  reluctantly,  and  reconnoitred  in  the 
neighbourhood  for  a  long  time  before  venturing  farther. 
Though  the  exploit  of  yesterday  was  the  source  of  much 
pride  to  him,  he  was  far  from  anxious  to  get  into  any 
more  broils.  He  walked  cautiously,  with  a  timid  heart, 
half  shrinking  within  himself,  and  keeping  a  sharp  look 
out  for  boys  that  he  might  avoid  them,  for  he  now 
regarded  all  boys  as  his  enemies. 

Early  next  day  Vanya  applied  at  the  nearest  school. 
The  principal  made  Vanya  wait  a  long  time  in  her  office, 
and  as  he  sat  there  fingering  his  cap  his  mood  was  more 
akin  to>  that  of  a  guilty  prisoner  awaiting  trial  than  that 
of  a  young  boy  waiting  to  enter  school.  He  suddenly 
realised  that  a  few  minutes  would  pass  and  that  he,  a  ] 
woods  boy,  would  be  thrust  as  by  an  unseen,  inevitable 
hand,  over  which  he  had  no  control  and  tp  whose  prowess 
he  had  already  been  a  witness,  from  a  world  of  trees  into 
a  world  of  boys,  and  the  thought  of  it  frightened  him. 
While  he  was  reflecting  dismally  upon  the  unkindness  of 
this  new  world,  the  principal  came  in  again  and  beckoned 
to  Vanya  to  follow  her. 

Again  Vanya  walked  through  a  series  of  corridors,  \ 
this  time  by  the  side  of  a  pale,  austere,  thin-lipped  wo 
man,  and  as  the  corridors  were  lined  with  leaded  glass 
Vanya  watched  with  a  strange,  inexplicable  agitation 
the  small  dark  blurs  which  stirred  slightly  on  either  side 
of  him. 

At  last  they  got  to  a  small  corridor,  which  culminated 
in  a  cul-de-sac,  Vanya's  guide  pausing  before  the  penulti- 


THE  OLD  MANTLE  OF  AHASUERUS   145 

mate  door,  at  which  Vanya's  heart  gave  a  jump.  Then 
she  opened  the  door  and  Vanya  followed  her  timidly  in. 

'Panic  seized  Vanya  upon  seeing  so  many  faces  and 

feeling  all  eyes  fixed  on  him.     It  was  as  if  so  many 

i  needles  had  suddenly  touched  his  skin.     The  principal 

•said  a  word  to  the  school-mistress;  they  both  laughed; 

.and  then  the  principal  went  out. 

The  school-mistress,  a  grey  elderly  woman,  smiled 
slightly  at  Vanya  from  behind  her  spectacles,  but  Vanya 
<was  too  dazed  to  notice  her  smile;  at  that  moment  her 
Iface  resolved  itself  for  him  into  a  vacant  countenance, 
1  bereft  of  all  features  save  a  mouth,  a  long  narrow  slit 
icut  across  the  wrinkled  skin  as  with  a  single  stroke  of  a 
sharp  knife.  He  saw  this  mouth  move,  heard  the  sound 
of  words.  He  had  a  curious  feeling  that  the  words  were 
i  addressed  to  him.  He  only  roused  himself  when  they 
Lwere  repeated.  He  knew  a  few  words  of  English,  which 
he  had  studied  in  a  grammar  during  the  journey,  but  he 
[could  not  understand  her.  She  called  for  a  Russian  boy 
in  the  class  to  interpret. 

"Ask  him  his  name." 

The  boy  repeated  the  question  in  Russian. 

"Ivan  Borisovitch  Gombarov,"  replied  Vanya,  gather 
ing  up  his  courage. 

The  school-mistress  laughed,  the  children  in  the  front 
I  i  rows  giggled. 

"Well,  let's  see  what  we  can  do  to  Americanise  it ;  you 
j|must  become  an  American  now,  my  boy.  To  begin  with, 
| suppose  we  call  you  John,  Ivan  is  John,  isn't  it?  Your 
[j  middle  name  is  ...  " — and  the  school-mistress  hesi 
tated. 

"Borisovitch,"  said  Vanya,  now  John,  and  explained: 
"My  father's  name  is  Boris.  It  means  son  of  Boris." 

"Suppose  we  lop  off  the  Vitch'  part  of  the  name,  it 
won't  do  you  any  good  here,  except  to  annoy  busy  people. 
Let's  call  you  John  Gom  .  .  .  what  is  it?" 


146  THE  MASK 

"Gombarov,"  prompted  John. 

"Sounds  like  Gumboil,"  laughed  the  school-mistress, 
amused  at  her  own  joke,  and  as  she  said  this  loud  enough 
to  be  overheard  by  the  whole  class  there  were  many 
chortles  and  giggles.  For  once  she  did  not  call  the  class 
to  order,  for  after  all  not  to  laugh  at  a  clever  thing 
betokens  a  slim  sense  of  humour,  and  she  was  glad  to 
see  that  her  class  had  this  virtue  developed  in  a  reason 
able  measure. 

As  for  John,  he  stood  there  as  in  a  trance,  overcome 
by  confusion  and  shame,  as  before  a  tribunal  or  an  ex 
ecutioner,  so  that  it  might  have  been  as  easy  at  that 
moment  to  lop  off  his  head  as  the  "vitch"  off  his  name. 
The  smile  on  his  face  seemed  not  his,  but  glued  on,  but 
it  served  its  purpose,  a  dyke  to  hold  the  tears  back. 

But  soon  the  ordeal  was  over,  and  he  was  given  a 
place  at  the  bottom  of  the  form.  It  did  not  take  the 
school-mistress  long  to  discover  that  the  new  boy's 
knowledge  of  arithmetic  was  far  above  the  needs  of  her 
class,  which  was  the  second  primary  grade,  and  he  was 
slightly  older  than  the  rest  of  the  pupils,  but  owing  to  his 
ignorance  of  English  it  was  decided  to  keep  him  there. 

Recess  came  and  Vanya  marched  out  in  the  line  with 
the  rest  into  the  recreation  yard.  Once  in  the  yard,  the 
new  boy  was  surrounded  by  a  constantly  changing  little 
crowd  in  which  voices  cried  "Gumboil"  at  him;  but  he 
felt  greater  friendship  in  the  few  voices  which  addressed 
him  simply  as  "Gomby." 

Afterwards  on  being  left  more  or  less  to  himself,  he 
walked  about  in  a  lost  way,  and  looked  with  longing  eyes 
toward  the  swings,  the  trapeze  and  the  other  contrivances 
of  play.  He  saw  a  boy  now  and  then  push  his  way 
forward  boldly  and  displace  another  boy  and  he  envied 
the  displaced  boy  as  much  as  the  one  who  replaced  him. 
As  he  walked  about  in  this  half-dazed  manner,  wishing 
he  could  take  a  share  in  the  happy  turmoil,  he  suddenly. 


THE  OLD  MANTLE  OF  AHASUERUS   147 

came  upon  a  pump,  by  the  side  of  which-  a  half -rusty 
tin  cup  hung  on  a  chain  and  he  realised  that  he  was 
thirsty.  At  that  moment  a  boy  ran  by,  who,  divining 
John's  intention,  paused  for  hardly  more  than  an  instant, 
but  long  enough  for  him  to  put  a  ringer  under  the  spicket 
and  send  a  small  but  rapid  stream  shooting  into  John's 
face.  Then  he  ran  on  and  lost  himself  among  the  other 
boys. 

One  of  the  school-mistresses,  who  had  come  out  with 
a  bell  to  call  the  recess  to  an  end,  found  John  crying, 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  boys.  An  effort  was  made 
to  find  the  culprit,  who  after  the  way  of  culprits  made 
good  his  escape.  There  was  nothing  left  for  John  to  do 
but  to  wipe  his  face  and  to  resume  his  seat  in  his  class. 
He  sat  there  quietly,  with  a  subdued  air,  riveted  to  his 
seat  by  invisible  nails;  dull  pains,  like  flames,  converged 
upon  his  heart,  which  boiled  and  seethed  with  injury  and 
humiliation,  and  this  boiling  and  seething  found  egress 
in  the  eyes,  their  only  safety  valve,  which  shone  with  a 
dulled  lustre,  like  bright  copper  from  behind  escaping 
steam.  But  suddenly  his  eyes  brightened.  Is  was  as  if 
that  which  boiled  and  seethed  had  ceased  to  boil  and 
seethe  and  that  which  was  half-hidden  and  dulled  by  a 
vaporous  tissue  were  polished  and  cleansed  and  shone 
richly  with  high-lights  out  of  darkened  corners.  It  is 
hard  to  tell  whence  and  how,  but  a  thought  came  to  the 
boy.  Not  so  much  a  thought  as  a  fancy,  a  little  white 
bird  let  loose  suddenly  from  one  of  the  many  cages  of 
memory.  Without  seeking  to  recall,  he  recalled  at  that 
moment  a  fairy  tale  he  had  read  a  long  time  ago  about  a 
wood  wizard  who  turned  a  wandering  prince  into  a  tree ; 
he  thought  how  fine  it  would  be  if  he  could  turn  all  these 
boys  into  trees,  scraggy  little  twisted  trees,  because  they 
were  so  wicked  to  him.  He  had  already  done  this  in 
his  imagination,  and  the  fancy  pleased  and  consoled  him. 
He  was  now  a  woodsman  strolling  through  this  wood 


148  THE  MASK 

with  an  axe,  lopping  off  the  more  malicious  looking  of 
the  branches.  He  was  smiling  a  little  to  himself. 

"John  Gombarov!"  he  heard  his  name  called  in  the 
midst  of  his  adventure.  "You  are  not  listening." 

It  was  the  school-mistress,  with  a  pointer  in  her  hand, 
before  the  blackboard,  who  spoke. 

On  hearing  his  name  called,  John  roused  himself. 
Again  he  felt  the  eyes  of  the  whole  class  upon  him,  and 
his  face  flushed. 

He  was  commanded  to  read  the  words  on  the  black 
board,  which  he  did  in  a  faltering  voice  but  evidently 
with  greater  knowledge  tl^an  he  had  been  expected  to 
show,  for  the  school-mistress  prompted  him  only  rarely 
and  had  no  need  of  calling  for  an  interpreter.  She 
thought  it  an  excellent  performance  for  a  foreign  boy 
only  a  few  days  in  the  country.  On  his  part,  because  he 
had  been  called  to  order  and  had  to  be  prompted  at  all, 
he  felt  that  he  had  failed  and  resumed  his  seat  in  a  crest 
fallen  mood,  a  mood  which  stayed  with  him  until  he 
returned  home. 

He  found  all  the  children  gathered  in  the  kitchen,  for 
the  Gombarovs  had  only  two  rooms  now.  The  table  was 
set  for  lunch,  and  Gombarova  herself  was  expected  to 
return  almost  any  moment  from  shopping.  Raya  was 
holding  Sonyatchka  in  her  arms,  while  Dunya  was  pre 
paring  the  cups  for  cocoa.  They  assailed  their  brother 
with  questions,  for  they  too  were  to  be  sent  to  school 
within  a  few  days.  They  were  very  much  amused  at  his 
new  name,  and  Dunya  took  especial  delight  in  calling  out 
now  and  then,  oftener  than  the  occasion  required: 

"Djohn!" 

As  for  John,  he  went  with  his  school  books  into  the 
next  room  and  happening  to  pass  a  mirror  he  paused  to 
survey  himself  in  it.  He  made  a  very  grave  face  and 
wondered  why  it  was  that  he  was  so  annoyed  and  per- 


150  THE  MASK 

to  look  like  him.  He  was  astonished  at  his  success  and 
at  the  variations  he  could  give  his  mimicry. 

It  was  at  this  unlucky  moment  that  his  mother  came 
into  the  room.  John  quite  suddenly  saw  her  in  the  mir 
ror  overlooking  his  shoulder,  and  the  goblin  as  if  fright 
ened  vanished  from  his  face.  The  boy's  heart  gave  a 
jump. 

"So  this  is  what  you  have  learnt  at  school !"  he  heard 
his  mother  say,  and  there  was  no  heart  left  in  him  to 
retort  or  to  tell  her  of  the  sadness  of  that  morning. 

He  timidly  followed  his  mother  into  the  kitchen,  and 
sat  down  before  a  bowl  of  soup. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  GOMBAROVS  BEGIN  THEIR  NEW  LIFE 

A  BLEAK  day,  in  a  bleak  narrow  street,  still  more  dark 
ened  and  cooled  by  the  tall  buildings.  Drays  passing, 
dozens  of  wagons  waiting,  newspaper  presses  whirring 
noisily  under  your  feet,  steam  oozing  out  of  gratings  in 
the  pavement;  cries,  often  profane,  of  draymen  and 
newsboys  and  sausage  vendors;  everywhere  flashes  of: 
white — torn  newspapers  littering  the  street;  large  letters, 
too  far  apart  to  be  read  quickly,  sprawling  high  across 
the  buildings,  too  ugly  to  be  defaced;  still  higher  over 
head  wires,  hundreds  of  them,  running  in  all  directions. 

"It  was  chaos,  ungodly  chaos,"  said  John  Gombarov, 
speaking  of  it  many  years  afterward.  "Man's  imagina 
tion  is  wonderful,  if  vile,  to  have  invented  it.  And  just 
as  the  face  of  God  reflected  itself  in  the  waters  which 
swept  across  the  original  chaos,  so  the  hand  of  Satan 
showed  itself  in  every  detail  which  went  to  the  making 
of  this  new  chaos." 

On  that  bleak  day,  in  that  bleak  narrow  street,  hun 
dreds  of  men  and  boys  kept  pouring  in  through  a  very 
broad  door  of  the  central  building  and  pouring  out  again 
with  large  stacks  of  newspapers  under  their  arms.  They 
came  out  shouting  the  name  of  the  paper.  Inside  the 
building,  in  a  large  room,  lit  up  by  garish  incandescent 
lights,  a  long  line  of  boys  moved  squirming  past  a  count 
er,  caged  off  by  wire  netting,  through  a  hole  in  which  at 
the  other  end  a  man  in  shirt  sleeves  would  hand  out  the 
papers  to  each  succeeding  boy.  The  boys,  who  were  of 


152  THE  MASK 

all  sizes,  and  for  the  most  part  ragged  and  dirty,  moved 
forward  unevenly  and  jostled  one  another  rather  roughly 
and  made  forward  and  backward  thrusts  with  their  el 
bows  and  feet  on  the  least  provocation,  sought  a  provo 
cation  when  there  was  none,  and  accompanied  each  move 
ment  and  thrust  with  a  gibe  or  an  oath. 

"Stop  your  shovin',"  said  a  big  bully  as  he  turned  upon 
a  small  frightened  boy  behind  him  neater  and  cleaner 
than  the  rest.  "Watsemarreh*  with  you  ?  Do  you  think 
because  yer  mother  washes  yer  face  you're  de  boss  of 
dis  here  shop?" 

"I'm  not  pushing,"  replied  the  small  boy  timidly,  "it's 
the  boys  behind  me." 

**"G'wan — go  back  to  Jerusalem !"  growled  the  bully 
in  drawling,  ranting  accents. 

Those  within  hearing  laughed  at  this  witticism. 

The  small  boy,  who  was  none  other  than  John,  once 
Vanya,  shrunk  within  himself  and  said  nothing.  At 
that  moment  he  would  have  gladly  gone  to  Jerusalem,  or 
Jericho,  or  Bagdad,  anywhere  out  of  that  place,  for  he 
could  not  imagine  a  more  wretched  world  than  the  one 
he  was  already  in. 

At  last  he  got  his  papers  and  he  ran  out  crying  his 
wares  like  the  rest  in  a  voice  which  did  not  sound  to  him 
like  his  own.  His  slender  cry  seemed  lost  in  the  midst 
of  the  jarring,  grating  noises  of  that  unechoing  street, 
and  he  had  not  shouted  loudly  since  the  old  days,  barely 
more  than  three  months  ago  but  which  seemed  as  many 
years,  in  the  woods,  where  the  slenderest  cry  that  he  ut 
tered  grew  into  a  resonant  din  lost  somewhere  among 
the  trees  as  among  the  reeds  of  a  giant  organ. 

Presently  he  stopped  in  another  newspaper  offce  and 
a  few  minutes  later  at  a  third  and  added  to  his  stock  of 
papers.  He  ran  up  Chestnut  Street,  a  thoroughfare  erect 

*  "What's  the  matter?" 
**  "Go  on !" 


THE  GOMBAROVS  BEGIN  THEIR  NEW  LIFE    153 

and  unbending  with  pride  and  virtue,  in  which  every  un 
toward  appearance,  deviating  however  slightly  from  local 
custom,  provoked  astonishment  or  amusement.  And  in 
these  amused  and  astonished  glances  the  bold  and  daring 
of  the  city's  architect  shone  eloquently  forth.  For  in  a 
street  so  simple,  so  straight,  so  narrow,  so  honestly  con 
ceived,  and  bound  as  it  were  in  its  infancy  to  a  straight 
plank  like  an  Indian  child,  it  was  natural  that  any  appear 
ance  conceived,  born  and  nourished  in  other  circum 
stances  less  simple,  less  erect,  less  blunt,  was  foredoomed 
to  become  in  the  eyes  of  the  native  like  a  thing  that  is 
strange,  or  warped,  or  peculiar,  or  merely  amusing,  so 
that  he  swelled  with  pride,  and  superiority  and  conde 
scension  not  less  at  the  vision  of  an  Englishman's  spats 
than  at  the  itinerant  rug  merchant's  fez. 

There  was  not  alone  this  condescension,  if  not  aver 
sion,  to  peculiar  appearances,  for  with  it  went  a  deeper 
intuition  of  deep-souled  ingrained  qualities  even  more 
antagonistic  to  the  native's  character.  For  John,  though 
he  wore  neither  the  foreign  merchant's  fez  nor  an  Eng 
lishman's  spats,  was  yet  so  indelibly  stamped  with  a 
nature  irresistibly  alien,  if  hard  to  define,  that  his  Amer 
ican  clothes,  far  from  hiding  his  peculiarities,  accen 
tuated  them  to  such  a  degree  that  had  he  actually  been 
the  wood  goblin  he  had  mimicked  so  successfully  in 
the  mirror  his  sudden  appearance  in  Philadelphia's 
noblest  thoroughfare  could  not  have  attracted  more  atten 
tion.  Yet  he  was  neither  a  goblin,  nor  a  monstrosity,  and 
his  features  were  if  anything  more  regular  and  distin 
guished  than  the  average  boy's,  while  his  eyes  at  times 
shone  almost  feverishly  against  his  dark  skin.  There 
was  perhaps  too  much  old-worldliness  in  his  brown  face, 
too  much  wistfulness  in  his  grey  eyes,  to  suit  the  taste 
of  the  complacent  native,  with  his  store  of  energy,  hos 
tile  to  sorrow.  The  gleam  of  fear  in  the  boy's  eyes,  his 
hunted  look,  the  utter  sense  of  remoteness  which  some- 


154  THE  MASK 

thing  in  his  appearance  suggested,  inevitably  attracted 
the  glance  of  many  a  passer-by,  whose  mind  sheltered 
the  embryo  of  a  thought,  as  yet  unuttered,  hardly  even 
formed :  "A  wretched  little  foreigner,  but  in  time  we  shall 
make  a  man  of  him,  take  from  him  his  benighted  Euro 
pean  heart  and  with  it  the  look  of  misery  on  his  face, 
and  put  in  their  place  a  true  American  heart  and  a  look 
of  contentment.  We  shall  run  him  through  a  mangle  and 
wring  Europe  out  of  his  flesh  and  bones  like  dirt  out 
of  a  garment." 

At  least  that  was  how  John  Gombarov  expressed  him 
self  years  afterward  in  his  picturesque  way  to  his  Eng 
lish  vis-a-vis  of  the  A. B.C.  shop,  who,  interrupting  Gom 
barov,  observed : 

"Your  narrative  interests  me  intensely,  but  I  wonder 
whether  you  are  not  too  sweeping  in  your  generalisa 
tions.  You  appear  to  be  actuated  by  too  great  a  personal 
passion  to  be  altogether  an  impartial  witness.  The 
trouble  with  you  was  that  you  were  over-sensitive  as  a 
boy  and  your  experiences  happened  to  be  unfortunate." 

Gombarov  laughed  his  ironic  laugh,  and  replied : 

"No,  Will,  you  don't  do  me  justice.  America  is  quite 
beyond  all  human  hate  or  pity.  She  is  perhaps  a  great 
blind  cosmic  force,  sometimes  even  for  idealism,  but  like 
all  cosmic  things  she  fails  in  particulars.  She  is  a  gen 
eralisation,  she  is  in  fact  a  great  energy,  a  Niagara  Falls, 
not  as  yet  harnessed  properly.  Didn't  I  write  a  book 
idealising  her?  That  was  of  course  before  my  last  jour 
ney  there.  As  for  being  over-sensitive,  it's  a  thing 
which  works  both  ways.  For  after  all,  only  a  sensitive 
being  is  capable  of  receiving  such  concentrated  impres 
sions  of  the  character  and  psychology  of  a  country.  In 
deed,  coming  fresh  from  the  Russian  woods,  where  even 
my  own  people  left  me  alone,  I  was  particularly  impres 
sionable  to  the  rudeness  of  my  new  world.  I  was  like 
a  chaste,  unused  phonographic  disk  ready  to  record  new 


THE  GOMBAROVS  BEGIN  THEIR  NEW  LIFE    155 

voices,  and  if  these  voices  sound  at  times  rude  and 
querulous,  please  remember  that  the  voices  and  not  the 
instrument  are  at  fault.  The  Russians  have  a  good  say 
ing:  'Don't  blame  the  mirror  if  your  face  is  crooked'." 
"Go  on  with  your  story,  I  shan't  interrupt  again," 
said  Gombarov's  friend,  William  Douglass,  who,  with 
a  painter's  interest,  watched,  fascinated,  the  fluent  mo 
bility  of  the  lines  of  his  friend's  face,  a  mask  of 
vehement  sincerity. 

That  was  John's  second  day  as  a  newsboy,  having 
been  initiated  the  day  before  by  a  boy  who  lived  in  the 
same  house  with  the  Gombarovs.  He  had  considered 
himself  successful  on  his  first  day,  having  sold  no  less 
than  thirty  papers,  his  entire  stock,  and  made  a  clear 
profit  of  fifteen  cents.  Thus  encouraged,  he  had  pro 
cured  a  larger  stock  on  the  following  day,  forty  to  be 
exact,  and  ran  up  Chestnut  Street,  doing  his  best  to 
imitate  the  cry  of  the  other  boys.  His  frail,  hesitant  cry 
penetrated  only  a  few  yards,  but  within  its  small  radius 
its  very  hesitancy  and  frailty  were  a  powerful  magnet 
directing  curious  eyes  upon  the  strange  and  timid-looking 
lad  obviously  unaccustomed  to  his  task  and  surroundings. 
Nor  was  the  boy  himself  insensitive  to  the  interest  he 
aroused,  and  this  put  further  fetters  on  his  spirit. 

Discouraged  by  the  few  sales  he  had  made  so  far,  to 
his  great  joy  he  ran  into  the  boy  who  had  acted  sponsor 
for  him  the  day  before.  For  a  moment  he  lost  his  wist- 
fulness  and  his  face  became  transformed  by  a  broad 
smile. 

"How  are  you  doing?"  the  boy  asked  him. 

"Not  very  well.  Sold  only  four  copies,"  he  replied. 
The  boy's  question  recalled  him  to  himself,  and  he  be 
came  wistful  again. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,"  said  the  boy.  "Find  your 
self  a  corner  and  work  it  up.  You  may  not  do  very  well 


156  THE  MASK 

at  first,  but  little  by  little  you'll  work  up  a  lot  of  steady 
customers.  I  believe  Seventh  and  Chestnut  street  is  a 
free  corner.  Try  it  there,  and  maybe  I'll  look  you  up 
by  and  by." 

John  felt  encouraged,  and  did  as  the  boy  told  him. 
He  placed  himself  at  the  suggested  corner,  and  repeated 
one  and  the  same  cry : 

"Pa-per-r-s  .  .  .  Pa-per-r-s  .  .  .  ' 

The  day  was  growing  bleaker,  the  streets  darkened 
perceptibly,  snow  began  to  fall — as  yet  sparsely.  Lights 
began  to  appear  in  the  windows  of  the  tall  buildings.  A 
man  with  a  tall  pole,  at  the  top  of  which  was  a  small 
flame,  stopped  to  light  the  corner  lamp.  John  watched 
him  and  wondered  how  the  flame  came  to  be  there.  The 
snow  fell  and  melted,  owing  to  the  hot  furnaces  under  the 
pavements.  John's  feet  began  to  feel  wet,  his  hands 
numb,  from  time  to  time  he  huddled  himself  in  a  door 
way,  or  hopped  up  and  down  on  his  feet  to  keep  warm. 
Men  ceased  to  notice  him.  The  buyers  were  few  and  he 
lost  three  sales  because  he  did  not  have  the  proper  change. 
Altogether  he  felt  miserable,  his  heart  was  filled  with 
self-pity,  he  wanted  to  cry.  But  he  set  his  teeth  hard, 
clenched  his  numbed  fists,  and  with  a  powerful  effort 
restrained  himself.  A  courage  seemed  born  in  him  of 
desperation,  and  his  cry,  squeezed  as  it  were  no  longer 
from  his  throat  but  from  his  whole  body,  grew  less 
hesitant,  grew  louder  and  bolder. 

More  and  more  lights  sprang  up  in  the  buildings  and 
in  the  street,  and  the  snow  growing  thicker  he  paused 
now  and  then  to  watch  its  separate  particles  dancing  in 
the  blaze  of  the  arc  lights  and  the  people  moving  like 
shadows  in  the  haze  below.  Horse-drawn  tram  cars  ran 
past  him,  packed  full  of  people,  the  rear  platform  to  the 
very  step  so  overweighted  with  them  that  John  wondered 
that  it  did  not  lift  the  fore  part  of  the  car  off  the  tracks. 
The  street  too  was  becoming  more  crowded,  people  were 


THE  GOMBAROVS  BEGIN  THEIR  NEW  LIFE    157 

going  home  to  their  dinners.  Iron  shutters  and  iron 
doors  were  being  pulled  down  in  the  shops.  The  snow 
still  fell,  and  the  aic  grew  warmer.  John  suddenly  be 
came  aware  of  steam  escaping  from  a  grating.  He  went 
and  stood  over  it.  It  was  as  if  he  had  entered  a  warm 
room.  The  vapours  caught  him,  embraced  him,  a 
warmth  poured  itself  into  his  small  body  like  a  deli 
cious  hot  drink.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  melting  and  there 
were  moments  when  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  trance.  A  wave 
of  warmth  swept  upward,  and  he  closed  his  eyes.  A 
moment  of  forgetfulness  came  upon  him,  a  little  moment 
of  dreaming.  When  he  opened  his  eyes,  he  expected  to 
find  himself  on  top  of  a  Russian  oven,  Marta  bending 
over  him  and  saying : 

"What's  the  matter,  Vanya  darling;  don't  cry,  my 
darling." 

The  warmth  had  quite  melted  him,  and  he  was  crying. 
But  there  was  happiness  for  him  in  this  flow  of  tears. 
It  was  as  if  they  had  accumulated,  as  if  the  sheer  weight 
of  them  thus  partly  lifted  from  him  had  lightened  his 
heart.  Then  he  roused  himself  once  more,  and  pulling 
himself  together,  he  shouted  in  all  his  voice : 

"Pa-per-r-s  .  .  .  " 

As  if  so  desperate  a  call  could  not  pass  without  a 
response  a  tall  dark  figure  hastened  toward  him  through 
the  haze. 

"Have  you  got  the  Star?" 

"Yes,"  said  John,  pulling  out  the  paper. 

"Give  me  change  out  of  a  dime,  quick,  I'm  in  a  hurry," 
said  the  man.  holding  a  coin  in  his  hand. 

John  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  with  some  difficulty 
counted  out  the  change  and  gave  it  to  the  man,  who  then 
•thrust  the  dime  into  John's  hand  so  quickly  that  before 
he  had  time  to  clutch  it,  the  coin  dropped  through  the 
grating. 

John,   acting  on  his  first  impulse,  sprang   from  his 


158  THE  MASK 

warm  shelter  and  dashed  after  the  man.  He  ran  several 
yards,  elbowing  his  way  now  and  then  past  pedestrians, 
who  swore  at  him,  and  finally  came  upon  a  tall  striding 
figure, ,  which  resembled  his  man.  But  when  he  came 
closer  he  knew  that  this  was  not  he.  He  ran  on  farther 
and  turned  to  look  into  the  face  of  every  tall  man  he 
caught  up  with.  He  had  by  this  time  reached  the  next 
crossing.  This  was  a  very  busy  crossing,  and  dark 
figures  were  darting  in  all  directions.  John  paused  here 
and  stood  looking  through  the  snow  mist,  dazed  by  his 
failure.  This  time  he  was  roused  by  a  voice  full  of 
menace  : 

"Look-a-here,  beat  it,  this  is  my  corner." 

"I'm  .  .  .  I'm  .  .  .  looking  f-for  a  man  .  .  .  " 
stammered  out  John. 

"Lookin'  for  a  man,  are  you?  Well,  you  ain't  goin* 
to  find  'im  here.  All  de  men  on  dis  here  corner  are  mine, 
see?  Now  get  a  move  on!" 

John  moved  on.  Crestfallen,  no  longer  minding  the 
wet  and  the  cold,  he  slunk  back  to  his  corner.  He 
stood  all  huddled  up  over  the  grating,  all  immersed  in 
his  miserable  thoughts.  He  knew  as  yet  no  curse  words, 
and  inarticulate  curses  ran  in  his  whole  blood  and  tor 
tured  him.  But  he  cursed  himself  no  less  than  the  world. 
He  was  a  coward  and  a  good-for-nothing.  What  was 
the  good  of  him?  What  was  the  good  of  the  world? 
Why  was  he  different  ?  And  again  the  thought  returned 
to  him : 

"I  wish  I  were  dead." 

But  suppose  death  really  came  to  him  then,  as  it  did  to 
the  little  old  man  of  the  wood  who  was  carrying  a  bundle 
of  faggots  on  his  bent  back  and  was  sick  of  life?  What 
did  the  little  old  man  in  the  fable  say  to  Death  when  it 
came  ?  The  little  old  man  said :  "Help  me  to  carry  my 
wood."  That  was  what  the  little  old  man  said  to  Death. 
What  would  he  say  if  Death  suddenly  appeared?  Ah, 


THE  GOMBAROVS  BEGIN  THEIR  NEW  LIFE    159 

he  knew  what  he  would  say.  "Help  me  to  sell  my  papers. 
Find  the  lost  dime  for  me  under  the  grating.  Pull  the 
ear  of  the  boy  who  spoke  harshly  to  me."  And  the 
thought  of  what  he  would  say  somehow  consoled  him. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  really  want  to  die. 

Immersed  in  his  thoughts,  he  heard  his  name  called  : 

"John,  how  are  you  doing?" 

It  was  his  friend,  who  looked  him  up  as  he  had 
promised. 

"I've  sold  twenty,  and  I've  got  twenty  left." 

"Bad  luck.  That  means  you've  got  your  money  back. 
Well,  never  mind,  you'll  exchange  your  papers  for  new 
ones  to-morrow,  and  so  your  papers  will  cost  you  less. 
You  ought  to  make  a  handsome  profit  to-morrow.  Let's 
go  home  now." 

John  walked  along  by  the  side  of  the  boy,  his  head 
drooping,  feeling  very  much  like  a  slinking  dog  with  his 
tail  between  his  legs.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  time. 
He  was  ashamed  to  tell  the  boy  about  the  lost  dime  and 
that  because  of  it  he  had  not  even  his  money  back.  At 
last  he  gathered  courage  and  told  him. 

His  companion  said  nothing  for  a  while.  He  appeared 
to  be  thinking. 

'Til  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said  at  last  as  if  an 
inspiration  came  to  him.  "I'll  lend  you  a  dime,  and  you 
can  pay  it  back  to  me  a  cent  a  day.  Then  your  mother 
needn't  know,  and  you  won't  feel  your  loss  so  much. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"All  right  ..."  said  John  with  hesitation,  while  his 
teeth  chattered.  He  felt  very  grateful  to  the  boy  and  did 
not  know  how  to  express  himself.  By  the  time  they  got. 
to  the  house  he  was  still  wondering  what  to  say. 

When  they  were  about  to  part  in  the  hall,  his  com 
panion  said : 

"You  haven't  thanked  me  yet." 

John  was  confused.     He  realised  once  more  how  he 


160  THE  MASK 

had  been  neglected,  and  how  different  he  felt  from  other 
boys  because  of  this  neglect.  He  had  not  been  taught  to 
thank,  he  had  had  so  little  occasion  to  thank,  that  he  had 
come  too  little  in  contact  with  people  to  thank.  And 
this  boy  made  him  feel  very  much  abashed. 

UI  ...  I  ...  thank  you  ..."  stammered  out  John. 

Weighed  down  by  embarrassment  and  shame,  which 
settled  in  his  heart,  like  a  cloud,  he  entered  the  kitchen, 
and  having  flung  his  papers  aside  and  taken  his  overcoat 
off,  he  joined  the  others  round  the  big  iron  stove. 

Raya  and  Dunya,  their  sleeves  rolled  up,  their  faces 
grimacing  with  pain,  held  their  outspread  hands  over 
the  stove,  while  their  feet  marked  time  noisily  on  the 
bare  floor.  They  were  indeed  numb  with  cold,  having 
just  come  in  from  the  yard,  where  in  a  half-open  shed 
they  had  spent  some  time  over  the  wash-tub  rinsing  out 
the  clothes.  The  large  kettle  was  beginning  to  sing  and 
its  song  was  good  to  the  ear.  In  the  next  room  Gombar- 
ova  was  trying  to  get  the  baby  to  sleep,  she  hummed  a 
Russian  lullaby,  the  same  one  that  John  knew  so  well  and 
loved : 

"Sleep  my  baby,  sleep  my  darling, 
Bayonshki  bayou.  .  .  !' 

The  song  grew  lower  and  lower,  and  presently  it  stopped. 
John  still  sat  with  his  head  propped  up  in  his  hands,  in 
an  attitude  of  listening  when  his  mother  entered.  She 
was  about  to  ask  him  about  the  luck  he  had  had  that  day, 
but  her  eye  falling  upon  the  large  bundle  of  papers  and 
noting  the  boy's  passive  attitude,  so  unlike  his  joy  of 
yesterday,  she  refrained.  Soon  the  table  was  set  and  all 
sat  round  before  steaming  bowls  of  soup.  Big  chunks  of 
bread  were  handed  round. 

They  ate  ravenously,  in  silence,  which  Gombarova  was 
the  first  to  break. 


THE  GOMBAROVS  BEGIN  THEIR  NEW  LIFE    161 

"Well,  Vanya,"  she  still  called  him  Vanya  sometimes 
— "I  think  you  had  rather  a  miserable  time  of  it  to 
day  ...' 

"Yes,  I  had,"  interrupted  John,  a  deep  flush  coming  in 
a  wave  on  his  face. 

"You  should  have  come  home  earlier.    It  was  so  cold." 

"How  could  I?  I  had  all  my  papers.  No  one  would 
Ibuy.  I  didn't  want  to  bring  them  all  home  with  me. 
As  it  is,  I  only  sold  half  of  them,  so  that  I've  just  got 
imy  money  back — but  my  papers  will  cost  me  less  to 
morrow,  for  I  shall  exchange  those  I  haven't  sold  for 


new  ones." 


He  said  all  this  quickly,  as  if  anxious  to  get  it  over 
and  at  the  same  time  to  console  his  mother  with  to- 
lorrow's  prospects.  He  saw  that  his  mother  had  a  wor- 
ed  look,  and  at  that  moment  his  pity  for  her  swallowed 
p  his  pity  for  himself.  He  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  her 
Dout  the  lost  dime.  And  he  felt  humiliation  not  only 
t  his  loss,  but  at  the  deception  he  played  on  his  mother. 

Supper  over,  they  all  sat  themselves  round  the  stove. 

"Vanya,"  said  his  mother,  seeing  his  face  buried  in 
is  hands  and  his  eyes  looking  into  red  embers,  which 
lowed  through  the  grate,  "what  of  your  lessons?" 

John  went  into  the  next  room  and  returned  with  a 
ook.  The  baby  gave  a  waking  cry  as  he  re-entered. 

"Schlemil,"  said  his  mother  and  went  in  to  rock  the 
aby  to  sleep  again. 

Raya  held  Absalom  in  her  arms  and  tried  to  amuse 
im,  Dunya  sat  mending  a  garment.  John  held  the  book 

his  hand  and  lifting  his  head  high  went  on  repeating 
iterminably : 

"George  Washington  is  the  Father  of  His  Coun- 
.  .  .  George  Washington  is  the  Father  of  His 
Country  .  .  .  George  Washington  is  the  Father  of  His 
ountry  .  .  .  ' 

Dunya  was  in  a  teasing  mood. 


162  THE  MASK 

"If  George  Washington  is  the  Father  of  His  Country," 
she  addressed  her  brother,  "who  is  the  mother?" 

"There  isn't  any  mother." 

"No  mother?      How  can  that  be,  you  silly?"    said 
Dunya.      "Where  there  is  a   father  there  must  be   a 
mother." 

That  was  logical  enough,  yet  somehow  it  failed  to 
satisfy  John.  He  pondered  for  a  while. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  resumed  Dunya,  "what  was  the 
name  of  Washington's  wife?" 

"Martha,"  replied  John. 

"Well  then,  you  silly,"  said  Dunya  in  conclusive  tones, 
"if  George  Washington  is  the  Father  of  His  Country, 
then  his  wife,  Martha,  is  the  Mother  of  Her  Country." 

John  was  unsatisfied.  He  had  been  taught  only  that 
there  was  a  Father  of  His  Country.  Nothing  had  been 
said  to  him  about  a  mother.  Besides,  he  hated  to  bei 
bested  in  an  argument.  Suddenly  a  thought  came  to 
him,  and  he  brightened  up. 

"No,"  he  cried  in  triumph,  "that  can't  be.       For  if] 
George  Washington  is  the  Father  of  His  Country,  and  his 
wife,   Martha,   the  mother,  then  his  brother  and   her 
brother  would  be  the  uncles  of  their  country,  his  sister 
and  her  sister  would  be  the  aunts  o>f  their  country,  and- 
the  children  of  these  aunts  and  uncles  would  be  the 
cousins  of  their  country,  and  so  on.    There  would  be  no- 
stopping  anywhere.    And  so  you  see,  this  country  had  a 
father,  but  no  mother.     Well,  who's  the  silly  now?" 

John  gloated  with  pride  at  his  unanswerable  argu 
ment,  and  looked  at  his  sister  as  if  he  awaited  but  ex 
pected  no  answer.  And  indeed  all  Dunya  could  say  was : 

"Ask  your  teacher  to-morrow,  and  she  will  tell  you 
that  Martha  was  the  mother  of  this  country." 

"She  wasn't." 

"She  was." 

This  wrangling  might  have  gone  on  indefinitely,  had 


THE  GOMBAROVS  BEGIN  THEIR  NEW  LIFE    163 

not  their  mother  come  in  at  that  moment.     John  went 
on  to  the  next  sentence. 

Bed  time  came.  Gombarova  picked  up  the  lamp  from 
the  table,  and  everyone  reluctantly  left  the  stove  and  fol 
lowed  her  into  the  next  room.  The  room  was  large  and 
dismally  cold,  it  being  a  corner  house,  exposed  on  two 
sides.  The  slightly  turned  down  flame  of  the  lamp, 
placed  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  flickered 
gently  as  if  caressed  by  timid  slender  gusts,  causing  ap 
prehensive  shadows  to  dance  and  waver  in  the  corners 
and  occasionally  to  sweep  agitatedly  across  the  walls  and 
the  ceiling  in  large  frantic  movements.  The  windows 
were  luxuriant  gardens  of  beautiful  frost-flowers,  which 
grew  almost  perceptibly  and  opened  out  and  wafted  their 
unfragrant  iciness  into  the  room.  John  pressed  his  nose 
against  the  window,  and  coming  in  contact  with  nettles 
of  ice,  withdrew  quickly.  He  scraped  away  a  small  circle 
on  the  pane  with  his  finger  nails  and  looked  out.  The 
snow  had  ceased  falling. 

When  he  turned  his  face  again,  the  large  room,  but 
rpoorly  furnished  with  a  few  bare  necessities,  was  in  a 
confusion.  Mattresses  were  being  drawn  out  of  a  cup- 

oard  and  flung  on  the  floor  against  the  walls.     The 

rombarovs  no  longer  slept  in  beds. 

Gombarova  herself  slept  in  the  most  sheltered  corner, 
Sonyatchka's  cradle  being  within  reach  of  her  hand. 

When  Sonyatchka  cried,   Gombarova,  her  eyes  closed, 
automatically  put  out  her  hand  and  rocked  the  cradle. 

R.aya  and  Dunya  slept  together  on  one  mattress,  Katya 

ind  Absalom  on  another.    John  had  a  small  mattress  all 

:o  himself. 
As  soon  as  she  saw  all  her  children  in  their  places 

Sombarova  blew  out  the  light  and  scurried  over  on  her 

:ip-toes  to  her  corner  across  the  cold  carpetless  floor. 

Sonyatchka  gave  a  cry  and  the  cradle  began  to  rock.     A 


164  THE  MASK 

low  sleepy  voice  hummed  a  wordless  lullaby.  Elsewhere 
there  were  faint  girlish  whispers.  The  sound  of  rocking 
grew  steadily  lower,  it  seemed  to  lull  the  humming  voice 
to  sleep,  the  whispers  ceased  more  abruptly.  All  that  a 
little  while  ago  lived,  spoke  and  moved,  now  lapsed  into 
mere  breathing,  deep,  loud,  long-drawn,  now  and  then 
rising  to  hoarseness  in  the  torturous  effort  to  become  a 
very  young  snore. 

Night  moved  through  the  room  on  her  noiseless  feet 
and  put  her  light  dim  fingers  on  weary  heads.  The 
Gombarovs  slept. 

Only  John  did  not  sleep.  All  curled  up  with  cold,  he 
lay  there  hardly  dead,  hardly  alive.  The  cold  air  swept 
across  the  floor  and  tickled  his  nose.  The  chaos  of 
his  daylight  life  still  whirled  within  him,  gathered  itself 
as  it  were  into  a  ball  of  flame  and  settled  where  the  heart 
was,  only  there  was  no  longer  any  heart  but  a  ball  of 
flame.  And  this  ball  of  flame,  twirling,  shot  sparks  to 
his  brain,  each  spark  a  burning  thought,  a  consuming 
fear.  What  was  the  use  of  it  all?  What  was  the  ob 
ject  of  life?  Why  had  he  come  into  the  world?  Was 
it  only  to  suffer  ?  He  believed  in  God,  a  large  man  with 
a  long  flowing  beard,  but  why  was  he  so  unkind  to  them, 
the  Gombarovs?  He  lay  there,  hardly  moving,  hardly 
breathing,  his  large,  wide-awake  eyes  fixed  on  the  win 
dow,  on  the  frost-flowers,  made  clear  and  luminous  by 
the  arc  light  outside.  Why  did  they  breathe  so,  these 
others,  his  mother  and  sisters?  Their  hard  breathing 
alarmed  him.  Dunya  muttered  something  just  then, 
Raya  gave  a  slight  moan.  Why  couldn't  people  sleep 
quietly  ?  John  pulled  the  cover  over  his  head.  The  ball 
of  fire  became  like  a  stream,  flowing  between  the  head  and 
the  heart.  This  stream  grew  more  and  more  sluggish, 
his  thoughts  grew  more  and  more  vague  and  confused, 
and  at  last  weariness  overcame  him,  he  was  asleep. 

He  had  hardly  closed  his  eyes  than  he  woke  as  it  were 


THE  GOMBAROVS  BEGIN  THEIR  NEW  LIFE    165 

in  another  world.  Much  of  what  he  had  seen  there  he 
did  not  remember  the  next  day,  but  he  did  remember 
entering  a  deep  wood,  swinging  a  long  leafless  birch, 
lopping  off.  the  heads  of  toadstools  on  either  side  of  the 
little  path.  At  last  he  came  upon  a  large  mushroom, 
and  he  had  already  lifted  his  birch  in  order  to  lop  its 
head  off,  but  paused  quite  suddenly :  the  mushroom  was 
no  longer  a  mushroom,  but  a  small  boy,  very  much  like 
himself.  Then — he  dicl  not  remember  exactly  how  it 
happened — he  suddenly  found  himself  running.  He 
was  being  pursued  by  many  small  boys  without  heads. 
They  were  the  toadstools  whose  heads  he  had  lopped 
off.  Though  they  were  headless,  and  therefore  blind, 
they  pursued  him  unerringly,  their  arms  stretched  for 
ward,  fingers  claw-like.  At  last  he  stumbled  and  fell 
on  his  knees,  he  wanted  to  cry  out  and  could  not  utter 
the  slightest  sound.  A  hole  seemed  to  open  m  the 
ground  before  him.  He  gave  a  scream  and  fell  head 
long  into  it. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  heard  his  mother's  voice : 
"What  is  the  matter,  Vanya,  my  darling?     I'm  here, 
;ny  darling." 


CHAPTER  IV 

STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV's  NEW  VENTURE  AND  ADVENTURE 

ONCE  Gombarova  settled  with  her  flock  of  young 
ones  in  her  new  quarters  on  the  top  floor  of  an  Ameri 
can  tenement,  small  and  wretched  even  beside  the  serv 
ants'  quarters  of  the  houses  to  which  she  had  been  ac 
customed,  she  began  to  take  stock  of  her  immediate  re 
sources,  and  finding  that  they  were  none  too  good  after 
the  expenses  of  the  journey  and  later  readjustment, 
began  to  look  anxiously  to  her  husband's  arrival  and 
wrote  him  many  anxious  letters  to  hasten  it.  As  the 
days  and  the  weeks  passed,  and  Gombarov  did  not  come, 
this  anxiety  increased.  The  few  letters  he  sent  con 
tained  ardent  descriptions  of  new  plans  and  vague  prom 
ises  about  coming. 

Gombarov's  brother,  lakov  Bogdanovitch,  proved 
worse  than  useless.  He  started  a  small  dyeing  estab 
lishment  in  a  basement  a  few  doors  away  on  Gom- 
barova's  money  and  favoured  the  Gombarovs  with  his 
presence  at  an  occasional  meal. 

And  with  the  coming  of  new  troubled  days  Gombarova 
felt  more  and  more  the  need  of  unburdening  herself  to 
someone.  One  day  she  told  something  of  her  troubles 
to  the  woman  who  lived  on  the  floor  below,  a  large  good- 
natured  soul,  the  wife  of  a  tailor. 

"Woe  to  Columbus,"  *  she  observed  at  the  end  of 

*cfA  klug  zu  Kolombussen" — "Woe  to  Columbus" — is  a  common 
expression  among  Immigrant  Jews  in  America,  and  is  a  sort  of 
ironic  imprecation  upon  the  discoverer  of  America  for  their  tribula 
tions  in  the  new  country. 

166 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE   167 

Gombarova's  story,  "and  it's  even  worse  here  than  in 
Russia.  One  works  from  morning  till  night  to  make  a 
bare  living.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  you  can  do.  Why 
don't  you  send  out  your  boy  to  sell  papers?  My  Harry 
will  show  him." 

Gombarova  hesitated  a  long  time  in  taking  this  step, 
but  at  last,  with  many  misgivings,  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  it.  And  that  was  how  Vanya,  three  months  short  of 
eleven,  found  himself  suddenly  in  after-school  hours  in 
the  streets,  doing  a  small  but  manly  share  to  support  the 
household. 

Then  came  a  long,  anxious  interval  of  weeks,  during 
which  Gombarova  did  not  receive  a  word  from  her  hus 
band.  This  gave  her  much  worry,  and  she  was  wor 
ried  beside  about  Katya,  who  was  taken  ill  just  then. 
Katya  was  taken  to  the  hospital,  and  Gombarova  was 
permitted  to  see  her  on  visiting  days.  During  this  time 
Gombarova  had  had  many  frantic  moments.  But  one 
day  a  cablegram  arrived  from  Gombarov,  and  she  opened 
it  with  a  trembling  heart.  It  contained  but  one  word: 

"Free." 

She  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.  A  partial  ex 
planation  came  about  two  weeks  later,  in  a  short  note: 

"Have  been  just  released  from  prison.  Will  be  with 
you  again  in  a  few  days." 

That  very  day  she  brought  Katya  back  from  the  hos 
pital.  Katya  was  still  very  weak  and  a  little  yellow — 
the  doctors  said  she  had  a  mild  form  of  jaundice,  which! 
was  rather  a  rare  illness,  and  so  they  were  glad  to 
have  her.  For  the  first  time  in  weeks  Gombarova  was 
overwhelmingly  happy.  Indeed,  it  took  but  little  to  give 
her  joy.  She  was  more  like  a  trembling  young  virgin 
awaiting  her  lover  than  a  mother  of  several  children. 
And  in  those  few  days  she  bore  her  burdens  as  if  they 
were  no  heavier  than  a  necklace  of  pearls. 

Gombarov  arrived  toward  the  end  of  May.     It  was 


168  THE  MASK 

a  sweltering  day,  almost  like  mid-summer,  and  he  strode 
into  the  room  attired  in  a  linen  suit,  carrying  a  ponder 
ously  large  leather  bag  which  contained  his  personal 
luggage.  He  had  not  written  on  what  ship  he  was  com 
ing,  so  that  his  entrance  at  the  very  moment  that  the 
Gombarovs  were  seated  round  the  table  at  lunch  took 
them  all  by  surprise.  After  a  protracted  embrace  of  his 
wife,  he  embraced  every  one  of  the  children  separately, 
then  in  twos  and  in  threes,  gripping  them  so  tightly  that 
they  cried  with  delight  and  pain.  Gombarova  gave 
John's  chair  to  her  husband,  and  gave  John  a  box  to  sit 
on,  there  being  no  more  chairs  than  there  was  need  for 
in  the  Gombarov  household.  Gombarov  talked  as  he 
ate. 

"This  is  a  barbarous  place,"  was  almost  the  first  thing 
he  said.  "I  no  sooner  passed  the  officials  and  got  out 
of  the  immigrant  station  than  I  was  attacked  by  a  lot  of 
young  hooligans.  I  don't  know  what  they  imagined  I 
was,  perhaps  a  wild  man  from  Africa.  They  made  a 
noise  and  shouted  all  sorts  of  sounds  at  me,  they  surely 
couldn't  have  been  words." 

"Did  they  say  'B-zzzz'  ?"  prompted  Vanya. 

"Yes,  that  was  one  of  the  things." 

"That  was  at  your  beard,"  said  Vanya,  rather  proud 
of  his  knowledge,  "and  did  they  say  'Sheeny'?" 

"Yes,  that's  it,  how  clever  you  are,  Vanya.  What 
does  'Sheeny'  mean?" 

"That  means  Jew,"  answered  Vanya,  pleased  at  this 
proof  afforded  his  mother  of  his  own  experience. 

"So  this  is  the  free  America,  this  is  the  City  of  Broth 
erly  Love.  We've  run  away  from  Sodom  to  come  to  ; 
Gomorrah.  Well,  I'm  glad  you've  told  me  what  thesd 
noises  mean,  Vanya,  for  I  put  my  bag  down  for  a  mo 
ment  and  ran  after  one  of  those  brats;  he  ran  fast,  but 
I  ran  faster.  I  caught  him  by  his  coat,  then  took  hold 
of  one  of  his  donkey  ears,  and  led  him  back  to  where  my 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE  169 

bag  was.  He  struggled  hard,  but  I  managed  to  put  him 
across  my  bended  knee  and  gave  him  a  drubbing  that  the 
young  rascal  won't  forget  soon.  The  other  boys  stood 
at  some  distance  and  jeered,  but  I  went  about  my  busi 
ness.  I  wanted  to  give  them  a  good  reason  for  their 
jeering,  and  I  did.  I  don't  let  anyone  get  the  best  of 


me." 


Vanya  was  especially  delighted  with  the  experience 
related  by  Gombarov,  and  it  gave  him  great  joy  to  visu 
alise  the  scene  again  and  again.  He  felt  that  to  some 
extent  his  stepfather  had  avenged  his  own  persecution, 
from  which  he  was  not  altogether  free  even  now.  Gom- 
barova,  on  the  other  hand,  looked  worried,  and  at  the 
end  of  her  husband's  narrative  suggested  quietly: 

"I  think,  my  dear,  you'd  better  trim  your  beard  a  lit 
tle,  and  get  yourself  a  new  suit." 

She  was  far  more  eager  to  hear  his  own  story,  the 
story  of  the  past  few  months,  of  his  life  in  Russia,  the 
reason  of  his  going  to  prison,  and  other  things  of  im 
portance.  After  Raya,  Dunya  and  Vanya  had  left  for 
school,  and  she  had  tidied  up  the  rooms,  she  broached 
the  subject.  He  told  her  briefly  of  his  experiences  since 
his  parting  with  her. 

His  first  thought  after  his  family's  departure  had  been 
to  settle  the  insurance  affair,  and  once  the  money  was  in 
his  pocket  to  rejoin  his  dear  ones.  But  owing  to  the 
suspicious  circumstances  attendant  upon  the  fire,  the  mat 
ter  dragged  along  for  weeks,  and  as  he,  Gombarov,  was 
not  a  man  to  sit  still  with  his  hands  folded,  not  if  he 
tried,  he  bethought  himself  of  something  to  do  in  the 
meantime.  It  occurred  to  him :  why  shouldn't  he  carry  on 
his  incidental  experimental  work  before  resuscitating  his 
original  project  in  America?  He  would  show  to  him 
self  and  to  others  that  no  conflagration  could  consume  his 
ardour,  no  deluge  could  drown  his  enthusiasm.  After 


170  THE  MASK 

all,  that  fire  was  an  accident,  it  was  not  likely  to  happen 
again.  He  bore  no  hatred  toward  Mendel,  who,  like  a 
pearl  or  alloy,  was  a  chemical  accident.  Perhaps  the 
fire  was  even  a  good  thing  in  its  way,  for  after  the  first 
mood  of  listlessness  into  which  it  plunged  him,  after  the 
first  slight  stoop  it  gave  his  back  as  he  walked  ground- 
gazing,  a  great  rage  seized  him,  waking  all  his  energy, 
rousing  his  will  and  determination ;  he  straightened  him 
self,  stood  erect,  there  was  neither  sky  nor  ground  for 
him,  neither  God  nor  devil,  only  himself  and  his  creative 
,fire  within  him.  He  would  clear  the  old  ruins,  and 
build  better  in  their  place. 

He  rented  half  of  a  peasant's  cottage  in  a  village  where 
he  was  not  known;  the  other  half  was  occupied  by  its 
owner,  an  old  peasant  woman.  His  share  of  the  place 
consisted  of  a  single,  none  too  large  room,  with  low  ceil 
ing,  clay  floor,  white-washed  walls,  large  brick  oven  on 
which  you  could  sleep,  and  two  small  deep  windows. 
He  fitted  up  this  room  as  a  small  laboratory,  and  took 
up  his  work  where  he  had  left  off. 

The  villagers  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  man, 
who  so  strangely  shut  himself  in,  and  for  whom  mys 
terious  small  parcels  kept  on  arriving  almost  every  day. 
All  sorts  of  rumours  began  to  spread  about  him,  and  he 
became  the  talk  of  that  and  the  neighbouring  villages. 
One  person  passed  the  cottage  at  midnight,  and  hap 
pening  to  glance  at  the  window  saw  an  astonishing  blue 
shooting  flame,  which  made  him  cross  himself  three 
times;  another  person  passed  the  house  on  another  night, 
and  glancing  toward  the  window  saw  a  purple  flame 
falling  apart  in  star-like  sparks;  he  didn't  stop  to  cross 
himself  but  ran  on  in  the  dark,  pursued,  it  seemed  to  him, 
by  the  echoing  footfalls  of  the  cloven  hoof;  a  third, 
bolder  than  the  rest,  actuated  by  a  most  fearful  curios 
ity,  almost  not  his  own,  ventured  as  far  as  the  window 
— there  was  a  fierce  fire  in  the  oven,  and  Gombarov,  who 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE  171 

stood  with  his  back  to  the  window,  appeared  to  be  work 
ing  something  with  one  foot,  the  fire  gaining  or  losing 
!in  fierceness  in  the  degree  that  the  foot  increased  or 
slackened  its  action;  from  time  to  time  he  paused  to 
throw  small  square-looking  objects  into  strange-look 
ing  pots  suspended  on  a  metal  bar  over  the  curiously 
coloured  fire.  At  one  moment  he  took  one  of  the  pots 
and  poured  its  contents  into  another,  fire  poured  in  "just 
like  water" — at  that  instant  Gombarov  turned  his  per 
spiring  face,  looking  fierce,  tortured  with  the  heat,  lit 
up  by  the  coloured  flames,  furrowed  by  sharp  lines  as 
cending  as  it  were  upward,  eye-brows  turned  up  at  the 
outer  corners — in  short,  the  whole  image  gave  the  peeper 
the  impression  that  he  saw  the  devil  in  person.  The 
peeper  was  so  frightened  by  the  apparition  that  he  did 
not  stop  to  look  further,  but  fled  precipitately,  and  only 
stopped  to  cross  himself  when  he  was  safe  in  his  own 
house. 

1  Before  long  the  report  spread  that  Gombarov  prac 
tised  black  magic,  that  he  was  Antichrist.  Gombarov 
himself  was  oblivious  of  the  excitement  he  caused.  The 
landlady  was  appealed  to,  but  as  he  appeared  very  human 
and  very  kind  to  her,  and  had  besides  paid  her  hand 
somely  for  a  quarter  in  advance,  she  did  not  see  what 
she  could  do.  Of  course,  he  might  be  a  bit  of  a 
znakhar  *  in  a  benevolent  way,  that  is  a  man  who  knew 
something  and  made  use  of  his  knowledge  for  good  and 
not  for  bad.  And  she  held  to  her  opinion  so  strongly 
that  the  village  became  divided  into  two  camps :  there 
were  those  who  believed  Gombarov  to  be  an  evil  sor 
cerer  and  Antichrist,  and  those  who,  seeing  his  face  by 
daylight  and  being  witness  to  his  reasonable  ways,  scouted 
the  conclusions  of  the  midnight  prowlers  and  were  con 
vinced  that  he  was  a  man  of  great  learning.  This  con 
viction  was  strengthened  by  the  fact  that  latterly  he  had 
*  Wizard. 


'172  THE  MASK 

called  in  his  landlady  once  or  twice  to  assist  him  in  small 
operations  which  required  a  second  hand.  Surely,  they 
thought,  if  he  was  the  evil  one,  he  would  keep  his  af 
fairs  more  dark.  But  the  others  held  to  their  own  and 
argued  that  the  wiles  of  Satan  were  so  great  that  they 
were  not  above  simulating  frankness  and  even  kindness, 
in  order  the  better  to  hide  evil  deeds. 

This  conflict  about  Gombarov  might  have  gone  on 
indefinitely,  had  not  a  new  arrival  from  St.  Petersburg 
upset  the  calculation  of  both  camps  and  threw  them  into 
a  new  turmoil.  This  arrival  was  Arkhip  Petrovitch,  a 
native  of  the  village  who  served  as  house  porter  for  a 
retired  general  in  Peter*  and  had  received  a  few  days' 
leave  to  see  his  mother.  Owing  to  his  life  in  Peter, 
Arkhip  was  regarded  highly,  even  with  awe,  by  the  vil 
lagers,  and  as  his  opinion  was  held  to  be  of  value,  he 
was  not  long  in  hearing  both  sides  about  Gombarov. 
When  they  came  to  the  point  in  the  narrative  about 
mysterious  parcels,  the  curious  blue  and  purple  flames 
and  the  pots  of  liquid  fire  Arkhip's  face  suddenly  bright 
ened  up,  a  gleam  of  intelligence  leapt  to  his  eyes,  he  ] 
smiled  the  smile  of  one  who  was  superior  to  his  fellows 
and  twirled  his  moustaches  in  a  way  that  left  no  doubt 
that  he  had  a  clue  to  the  mystery.  He  showed  his  good 
training,  gained  at  the  point  of  the  general's  boot,  by 
not  interrupting,  but  he  kept  up  his  tantalising  smile  and 
twirled  his  moustaches  with  gingerly  assurance.  When 
the  speaker  concluded,  Arkhip  made  an  impressive  face, 
but  withheld  his  pronouncement  for  some  moments.  He 
appeared  to  enjoy  the  looks  of  anticipation  he  had  pro 
voked  in  the  villagers'  faces  and  prolonged  the  suspense 
in  order  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  thunderbolt  he  was 
about  to  throw. 

''Well,  well,"  he  drawled  at  last,  "you  are  a  lot  of 
country  bumpkins;  you  can't  see  further  than  your  nose; 

*  Short    for  St.  Petersburg. 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE   173 

may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  souls !  Not  that  it's 
for  me  to  judge  you,  seeing  as  you  haven't  lived  in  Peter, 
and  haven't  seen  the  things  as  I  have  seen.  Why, 
brother,  such  things  do  happen  as  would  make  your  hair 
stand  on  end,  and  it's  a  wise  man  as  would  be  able  to 
tell  the  difference  between  himself  and  a  porcupine.  Of 
course,  how  should  you  know?  The  potatoes  have  got 
to  be  hoed,  the  corn  has  got  to  be  threshed,  the  hay 
mowed.  These  things  has  got  to  be  done,  and  you  are 
here  to  do  it.  If  everybody  was  to  go  to  Peter  what 
would  become  of  our  matushka  *  Russia.  And  so  mind 
you,  I'm  not  blaming  you,  for  not  seeing  through  this 
Jew  fellow.  They  are  a  sleek  lot,  these  Jews.  And  it's 
all  clear  as  daylight  to  me,  what  he  is  and  what's  he 
come  down  here  for  to  work  on  the  quiet.  I  haven't 
been  all  these  years  in  Peter  for  nothing,  and  it's  rather 
lucky  for  you  I've  come  when  I  did.  Let  me  tell  you 
then,  you've  got  a  dangerous  man  among  you,  and  you 
don't  know  it.  The  idea  of  taking  this  Jew  for  a  sor 
cerer  !  That  would  make  my  master,  the  general,  laugh. 
Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  he's  up  to.  He's  one  of  those 
Nihilist  fellows,  and  he's  making  bombs  to  blow  up  some 
one  or  other,  you  can't  tell,  maybe  some  governor,  some 
general,  maybe  the  batiishka**  Tsar  himself." 

Then  Arkhip  paused  and  watched  the  faces  of  his  lis 
teners  to  see  what  effect  his  own  bomb  had  on  them. 
He  twirled  his  moustaches  more  vigorously  than  ever, 
twisting  them  upward  into  sharp  points.  His  hearers 
were  indeed  startled,  and  it  was  clear  that  their  hitherto 
divided  opinions  melted  and  merged  credulously  before 
the  fierce  assurance  of  the  newcomer.  They  raised  a  tu 
mult  of  indignation,  and  Arkhip,  who  had  watched  his 
master,  the  general,  to  some  good  purpose,  lifted  his 
hand  for  silence,  whereat  the  villagers  became  quiet. 

*  Little  mother. 
**  Little  father. 


174  THE  MASK 

"Now  don't  make  a  fuss  about  it,"  began  Arkhip, 
"these  Nihilists  are  very  slippery  fellows,  especially  when 
they  are  Jews.  Once  they  smell  a  rat  they  are  the  very 
devil  for  slipping  through  your  fingers.  You'd  think 
they  had  an  invisible  cap  and  go  off  in  the  air  somewhere. 
Now  you  see  them,  now  you  don't.  Leave  it  to  me. 
Don't  let  on  you  know  anything.  We'll  catch  him  like 
a  rat  in  a  trap.  Silence,  not  a  word — as  the  general 
says." 

On  the  following  day  a  cordon  of  police  surrounded 
Gombarov's  *place.  Answering  the  knock,  Gombarov 
opened  the  door,  and  found  himself  confronted  by  a 
sergeant  with  dangling  sabre,  flanked  on  either  side  by 
a  soldier  with  fixed  bayonet.  Being  slightly  near 
sighted,  dazzled  by  the  light,  Gombarov  with  screwed  up 
eyes  leant  forward  toward  the  sergeant.  He  looked  puz 
zled  rather  than  afraid. 

"We  have  come  to  search  your  place,"  said  the  ser 
geant. 

"Ah,  I  see,  someone  has  been  carrying  tales  about 
me,"  remarked  Gombarov. 

Gombarov  himself  was  searched  first  of  all,  and  all 
the  letters  and  the  papers  in  his  pockets  seized.  Then 
they  began  to  search  among  his  books,  Gombarov  help 
ing.  In  a  very  adroit  way  he  managed  to  slip  a  little 
paper-covered  book  into  his  pocket.  It  was  entitled 
"The  Iron  Age,"  and  Gombarov  had  received  it  in  an 
swer  to  an  advertisement  which  described  it  as  a  book 
dealing  with  certain  technical  matters  but  which  when 
it  came  turned  out  to  be  a  revolutionary  pamphlet. 

They  found  nothing.  That  is,  they  found  no  incrimi 
nating  books  or  papers,  nor  bombs.  But  the  chemicals 
looked  suspicious,  like  most  things  one  doesn't  know  any 
thing  about. 

"You'd  better  come  along  with  us,"  said  the  sergeant 
to  Gombarov  at  the  end  of  the  search. 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE  175 

To  Gombarov's  protest,  the  sergeant  replied : 

"I'm  sorry,  but  that's  our  orders.  I  have  a  warrant 
for  your  arrest." 

And  he  drew  out  of  his  pocket  an  official  paper  with 
a  red  seal. 

The  sergeant  locked  the  door  and  gave  orders  for  the 
room  not  to  be  disturbed.  Gombarov  marched  down  the 
village  street  between  six  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets. 
He  walked  calmly,  addressing  a  remark  now  and  then  to 
the  sergeant,  who  replied  politely.  Again  evil,  tri 
umphant  in  men's  hearts,  looked  out  of  multiple  eyes, 
with  satisfaction  and  malice.  But  good,  mystified, 
turned  away  in  pity,  and  closing  its  eyes,  prayed  on  bent 
!  knees  before  the  dimly  lit-up  image.  For  Gombarov  had 
been  kind  to  some  of  them  in  their  need,  had  cured  their 
babies  for  them  with  mysterious  medicines.  Arkhip  and 
his  comrades,  watching  the  gleaming  bayonets  disap 
pear,  station-wards,  over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  turned  their 
footsteps  toward  the  public  house,  splitting  the  clear, 
sun-lit  air  with  uproarious  guffaws. 

Once  in  his  cell,  Gombarov  thought  of  the  little  book 
in  his  pocket  and  of  the  best  way  he  could  dispose  of  it. 
He  examined  his  cell.  He  decided  it  was  too  risky  to 
toss  the  book  through  the  barred  window  into  the  court 
yard.  There  was  a  flue  high  up  in  the  wall,  and  he  could 
just  manage  to  reach  its  grating  by  standing  up  on  the 
cot.  First  of  all,  he  tore  the  pamphlet  into  tiny  bits, 
then  having  made  sure  by  putting  his  ear  to  the  door  that 
there  was  no  guard  within  hearing  he  stood  up  on  the 
cot  and  by  stretching  out  his  arm  to  the  uttermost  he 
just  managed  to  reach  the  grating.  Through  infinite 
patience  and  no  little  physical  exertion,  he  rid  himself 
of  his  contraband,  scrap  by  scrap,  rolled  into  little  tubes 
to  get  them  through  the  very  small  openings.  The  whole 
operation  took  about  twenty  minutes,  and  at  the  end  of 
it  he  felt  easier. 


176  THE  MASK 

He  had  no  sooner  finished  his  arduous  task  than  he 
heard  footsteps  in  the  corridor,  the  rhythmical  clink  of 
spurs.  They  paused  before  his  door,  which  opened 
quietly.  Two  gendarmes  entered,  they  asked  Gombarov 
to  follow  them. 

Down  the  dimly-lit  corridor  he  walked  between  th< 
gendarmes,  turning  corners,  and  more  corners,  aston 
ished  at  the  hive-like  maze  of  passages  and  cross-pas 
sages,  at  the  maddening  continuity  of  doors  and  the  mo 
notonous  interludes  between  doors,  the  gendarmes'  spurs 
clinking  steadily  and  evenly,  so  many  clinks  between 
one  door  and  another,  clink,  clink,  clink,  past  doors  in 
terminable  in  number,  an  infinity  of  doors,  each  leading 
into  a  cul-de-sac  of  human  wretchedness  as  into  a  honey- 
less  bee-cell  holding  a  writhing  bee  shut  in  from  flowers. 

Then  they  crossed  a  closed-in,  tunnel-like  bridge  into 
another  building,  and  walking  up  a  stairway  found  them 
selves  in  an  area-way,  hexagonal  in  shape,  each  section 
of  which  had  a  door.  One  of  the  gendarmes  pushing 
open  one  of  the  doors,  they  came  upon  a  small  spiral  stair 
case,  leading  downward  and  upward.  One  gendarme  led 
the  way  down,  followed  by  Gombarov,  the  other  went 
behind.  They  had  got  down  but  part  way  before  they 
paused  on  a  small  landing,  which  led  into  a  small  but 
very  deep  door  suggesting  the  entrance  to  a  vault.  The 
door  opened  noiselessly,  as  of  itself,  and  Gombarov  was 
astonished  to  find  himself  in  a  large  brilliantly  lighted 
room.  This  onslaught  of  light  dazzled  him,  for  a  mo 
ment  he  saw  nothing.  When  he  looked  to  either  side  of 
him  the  gendarmes  were  no  longer  there,  they  had  de 
parted  silently.  All  at  once  he  became  aware  of  a  pres 
ence,  rather  large  and  official,  and  on  hearing  this  pres 
ence  call  his  name,  he  walked  in  its  direction,  groping 
through  the  light.  The  official's  shape,  shining  at  its  sum 
mit,  loomed  before  Gombarov's  dazzled  near-sighted  eyes 
like  a  mountain  in  a  sun-drenched  mist.  Gombarov 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE  177 

laughed  to  himself  as  he  realised  the  childish  obviousness 
•  of  all  these  preliminaries,  and  he  was  determined  that 
he  would  neither  be  confused  nor  unnerved.  He  was  an 
» experienced  bird  in  his  own  way,  and  they  weren't  going 
ito  put  any  salt  on  his  tail.  Not  if  he  could  help  it.  He 
1  braced  himself,  walked  erect  toward  the  official,  and  be 
trayed  not  the  least  sign  of  fear. 

"Be  seated,  please,"  said  the  official,  who  appeared  to 
be  an  important  personage,  if  one  were  to  judge  from 
ihis  imperious  manners  and  numerous  decorations. 

But  Gombarov  did  not  flinch.  Not  for  an  instant. 
He  sat  down  with  a  dignified  ease,  which  must  have 
astonished  the  general,  for  Gombarov  had  made  up  his 
imind  that  this  official  was  nothing  short  of  a  general.  He 
sat  down  and  waited,  not  like  a  man  about  to  be  cross- 
examined,  but  like  one  who  awaited  an  explanation. 

The  official  asked  the  usual  questions:  his  full  name, 
when  and  where  was  he  born,  what  was  his  father's  oc 
cupation,  on  what  date  did  he  marry,  how  many  chil 
dren  had  he,  what  made  him  take  up  chemistry,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  official  rigmarole. 

Gombarov  suddenly  became  aware  of  another  pres 
ence,  a  younger  man,  taking  down  his  answers,  which 
were  simple  and  direct  and  uttered  without  hesitation. 
It  was  when  they  came  to  more  recent  events  that  the 
official's  manner  became  sharp  and  scrutinising. 

"What  I  don't  understand  is,  why  you  are  here  and 
your  family  is  in  America,"  he  said  sharply. 

"That's  very  simple,"  replied  Gombarov,  "I  was  wait 
ing  for  my  insurance  money." 

"You  Jews  are  always  waiting  for  your  insurance 
money." 

"Your  Excellency,"  observed  Gombarov  quite  boldly, 
"surely  a  man  can't  be  a  mercenary  and  a  revolutionary 
at  the  same  time.  I  may  be  one  or  the  other,  but  I  can't 
be  both.  Miserliness  and  recklessness  are  not  brothers." 


178  THE  MASK 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  the  official.  "What  I  want  to 
know  is,  did  you  get  your  money?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"About  two  months  ago." 

"M-mmm  .  .  .  two  months  ago  .  .  .  why  didn't  you 
clear  out  then  ?" 

"I  had  begun  some  experiments,  and  as  I  was  on  the 
point  of  making  a  discovery,  I  thought  I  had  better  go 
on  with  them." 

"What  is  your  discovery?" 

"It  has  to  do  with  metals." 

"M-mm  .  .  .  metals  .  .  ."  There  was  irony  in  the  of 
ficial's  voice.  He  seemed  lost  in  thought  for  a  minute 
or  two.  He  leant  forward  toward  Gombarov,  and  said 
almost  persuasively : 

"Now,  you  tell  us  who  your  accomplices  are  and  we  will 
let  you  off  scot  free,  provided  you  go  to  America  at  once. 
This  is  worth  taking  into  consideration,  I  assure  you." 

"I  am  not  a  criminal,  and  therefore  have  no  accom 
plices,"  said  Gombarov  in  a  hard  voice,  on  the  verge  of 
anger. 

"You'd  better  think  it  over,"  said  the  official,  "we'll 
get  at  the  truth  in  any  case." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  the  truth,"  shouted  Gombarov  al 
most  into  the  official's  face. 

The  official  pressed  a  button  at  the  side  of  his  desk. 
There  was  a  clink  of  spurs  outside  the  door.  The  door 
opened  silently.  Two  gendarmes  entered.  They  were 
not  the  same  who  had  conducted  him  before.  One  walk 
ing  in  front,  the  other  bringing  up  the  rear,  Gombarov 
keeping  in  step  between  them  found  himself  at  last  in 
his  cell. 

The  news  of  Gombarov's  arrest  caused  excitement  in 
the  whole  province.  The  newspapers  printed  accounts  of 
it  and  of  the  circumstances  of  the  whole  case,  which  they 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE   179 

regarded  as  extremely  suspicious.  They  dwelt  espe 
cially  upon  his  life  in  the  village  and  the  feeling  of  un 
rest  he  had  created  among  the  peasants.  What  they  did 
not  dwell  upon  was  the  nature  of  this  unrest.  Alto 
gether  he  was  regarded  as  a  very  important  capture. 
The  case  was  even  reported  in  the  metropolitan  news 
papers,  gaining  in  glamour  with  every  mile  that  it  went 
beyond  its  own  immediate  scene. 

The  trial  opened,  with  the  court  room  crowded  with 
men  from  many  provinces,  some  of  them  quite  distant, 
so  eager  were  they  to  see  "the  little  Polish  Jew"  about 
whom  such  strange  reports  circulated.  Carriage  after 
carriage  stopped  at  the  approach  to  the  court  house,  un 
loading  its  occupants,  men  in  epaulettes  and  gold  braid, 
and  women  in  Parisian  gowns. 

Gombarov  was  calm,  dignified,  fearless.  He  had  noth 
ing  to  fear  but  injustice.  His  alert  mind  was  a  blade 
of  Sheffield  steel,  a  sharp  active  rapier,  which  first  of 
all,  with  a  few  agile  thrusts,  ripped  away  the  gold  braid, 
the  epaulettes,  the  imperious  voices,  and  all  the  official 
tinsel  of  his  adversaries;  with  an  effort  of  his  will  he 
stripped  them,  reduced  them  to  minds,  naked,  without 
extraneous  defence,  and  he  pitted  his  mind  against  theirs. 
He  was  David,  they  were  Goliath.  He  refused  all  coun 
sel,  he  would  make  his  own  defence.  What  had  he  to 
be  afraid  of,  after  all?  Why,  there  were  two  or  three 
"bench-warmers"  he  had  known  and  measured  swords 
with  in  his  early  days  in  the  synagogue,  and  any  one 
of  them,  measuring  mind  against  mind,  could  put  a  gen 
eral  into  his  pocket,  gold  braid  and  all.  Standing  in  the 
prisoner's  docket,  his  mind  arrogantly  advanced  to  meet 
theirs.  Firm  on  his  feet,  the  muscles  of  his  legs  strained 
to  tension,  his  shoulders  sturdily  erect,  his  plentiful 
black  hair  bristling,  his  defiant  eyes  shot  out  as  from  a 
sling  luminous  gleams  of  challenge. 

The  prosecution  saw  the  challenge,  wanted  to  break 


i8o  THE  MASK 

him,  made  an  effort  to  break  him.  The  impudent  little 
Jew.  They  fired  all  sorts  of  questions  at  him  with  great 
rapidity,  they  took  turns  in  trying  to  confuse  him,  to  put 
him  out  of  countenance  by  veiled  insults,  to  reduce  his 
fearless  mind  to  a  quivering  atom  of  dull  fear  in  the  be 
wildering  chaos  of  their  own  brilliance.  He  parried 
the  poisoned  arrows,  he  fired  his  defiant  answers  clearly 
and  quickly,  he  sometimes  answered  question  with  ques 
tion  in  Oriental  fashion,  introducing  now  and  then  to 
their  confusion  a  parable,  and  he  made  them  fume  when 
he  took  the  edge  off  the  question  by  asking  in  bland,  col 
lected  tones : 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  repeat  the  question  ?" 

The  audience  gazed  fascinated  at  the  devilish  little 
man,  who  stood  there  so  tense  and  electric,  emitting 
sparks  in  abundance,  reaching  all  hearts.  They  had 
come,  full  of  anticipation,  to  see  him  flayed,  to  see  him 
stripped  of  the  proverbial  pound  of  flesh,  taken  from 
his  very  heart,  if  a  Jew  can  have  a  heart  so  large,  but 
there  he  was,  very  much  whole  and  sound,  his  mind  erect 
like  a  wall  between  his  heart  and  those  who  would  flay 
it.  Indeed,  there  were  keen  moments  when  it  seemed 
to  all  that  he  was  the  flayer  and  they  the  flayed,  he  the 
judge  and  they  the  judged. 

"Molodtchina — a  clever  chap !"  whispered  one  grand 
dame  to  her  gold-adorned  escort.  She  was  studying  the 
face  of  the  little  Polish  Jew  through  a  lorgnette. 

Others  were  pleased  because  they  had  a  personal 
grudge  against  one  or  more  of  the  prosecuting  officials 
and  would  have  a  topic  of  conversation  for  some  days 
to  come. 

Gombarov  had  reduced  his  case  to  one  of  chemicals. 
Were  his  chemicals  of  the  sort  used  in  the  making  of  ex 
plosives?  Yes,  some  of  them  were.  But  others  were 
not.  The  pro  cur eur- general  picked  up  a  small  bottle 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE  181 

containing  a  dull  silvery  fluid  from  a  table  upon  which 
was  an  exhibit  of  Gombarov's  chemicals. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked  Gombarov. 

"That?  It  took  me  months  to  prepare  that.  I  can 
not  tell  you  without  giving  away  a  secret  that  others 
would  take  advantage  of." 

"But  it  is  important  that  we  should  know." 

"You  have  your  own  experts,"  retorted  Gombarov. 

An  expert,  on  being  called,  admitted  that  he  had  made 
an  examination  of  the  liquid,  but  that  the  nature  of  cer 
tain  of  its  properties  had  wholly  eluded  him.  This  state 
ment  coming  from  a  government  expert  caused  a  com 
motion  in  the  court  room.  Gombarov  stood  there,  ap 
parently  indifferent  to  it  all.  He  concealed  the  satis 
faction  he  felt. 

The  procureur-general  turned  to  Gombarov. 

"Never  fear,  we  will  get  at  the  truth." 

That  awoke  Gombarov  from  his  momentary  callous 
ness.  Something  from  the  deepest  depths  of  him  gath 
ered  to  his  face  in  a  fierce  cloud,  torturous  for  an  instant 
round  the  temples,  then  moving,  relentless,  very  fierce, 
breaking  in  a  storm,  sudden,  unlooked-for;  his  sturdy 
frame  shook,  his  voice,  not  his  own,  was  a  lightning, 
shrill  and  electric  and  very  fierce;  it  withered  the  room 
into  a  fierce  silence,  all  were  very  silent  and  still,  only 
their  spines  felt  a  faint  tremor  vibrating  downwards, 
magnetically;  his  shrill,  fierce  cry  vibrated  down  their 
spines  like  the  cry  of  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  Tosca. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  the  truth.  I  have  pursued  truth 
|  all  my  life!"  cried  Gombarov  shrilly  and  fiercely. 

The  fashionable  audience  forgot  that  they  had  come 
to  laugh  at  a  little  Polish  Jew,  that  they  had  come  to  see 
him  flayed,  flayed  pitilessly.  Pitiless  and  shrill  was  his 
cry,  and  it  flayed  them  pitilessly.  They  had  come  ribald 
and  expectant  to  see  a  Jew  devil,  a  Shylock,  a  variation 
on  Shylock.  And  he  flouted  them  pitilessly.  But  they 


182  THE  MASK 

enjoyed  their  flouting,  because  they  thought  they  were 
seeing  a  play,  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  Tosca.  They  ap 
plauded.  It  was  as  if  some  spirit  outside  themselves, 
entering  their  bodies  at  that  moment,  moved  their  hands 
to  applaud,  though  he  had  flouted  them  pitilessly.  An 
official  rapped  for  silence,  and  reprimanded  Gombarov 
for  his  outburst.  The  case  was  continued.  Witnesses 
were  called.  Professor  Malinov  spoke  of  Gombarov's 
scientific  genius. 

Gombarov  was  acquitted.  Many  came  forward  to 
congratulate  him,  among  them  the  formidable  official,  the 
first  to  cross-examine  him  in  gaol.  He  slipped  a  card 
into  Gombarov's  hand  and  whispered:  "At  your  serv 
ice."  He  slipped  it  nonchalantly  into  his  pocket.  Later, 
in  a  leisure  moment,  he  came  upon  it,  but  was  not  aston 
ished  to  read  the  name  of  General  Lenitsky,  a  celebrated 
official,  very  clever,  very  much  feared,  a  price  on  his 
head. 

Gombarov  returned  to  the  village  five  days  later.  He 
found  many  letters  and  telegrams  waiting*  for  him). 
Among  these  were  four  or  five  invitations  to  dinner  from 
baronesses  and  generals'  wives.  He  also  found  a  dele 
gation  of  peasants  lodged  at  the  inn,  waiting  for  him 
to  appear.  They  were  all  crippled,  or  maimed  or  blind, 
and  on  the  day  of  his  return,  he  opened  the  door  in  re 
sponse  to  a  knock,  and  he  found  them  waiting  for  him, 
a  dozen  of  them  or  so.  They  came  to  be  healed  by  him. 
One  wanted  a  leg  straightened,  that  he  might  walk  with 
out  a  crutch;  another,  who  went  off  into  terrible  fits  of 
coughing,  wanted  his  asthma  cured;  a  third,  with  cata 
racts  in  his  eyes,  wanted  his  sight  restored  so  that  he 
might  see  the  black  and  green  of  the  earth  and  the  blue 
of  the  skies;  a  fourth  had  his  sight,  but  owing  to  a  curva 
ture  of  spine  and  curious  malformation  of  the  neck  could 
only  see  the  ground  he  walked  on  and  the  food  on  his 
plate  and  the  little  children  who  looked  up  at  him  curi- 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE   183 

ously  and  the  small  domestic  animals  and  the  fowl  which 
fluttered  their  wings  helplessly  as  they  ran  from  him  in 
alarm;  eloquently  and  pitifully  he  cried  to  Gombarov 
that  he  was  tired  and  weary  of  looking  always,  always 
upon  the  greyness  of  the  earth  and  the  tomb-stones  of 
dead  men  and  upon  crawling  things,  the  worm  and  the 
snake,  and  oh  how  he  wanted  to  see  the  great  stretching 
horizon  and  the  sun  at  midday  and  tree  tops  in  the  wind 
and  the  rainbow  after  the  storm  and  all  the  soaring  things 
up  on  high,  the  crow,  the  hawk  and  the  eagle.  He  was 
like  a  man  who  walked  for  ever  and  ever  in  a  low- 
roofed  cellar,  through  the  open  door  of  which  crept  in 
a  gleam  of  the  sun,  and  the  shadow  of  some  one  walk 
ing  past,  and  the  cry  of  a  bird,  always  the  lights  and 
the  shadows  and  the  reflection  of  things,  never  a  sight 
of  the  things  themselves.  Eloquently  and  pitifully  he 
cried  to  Gombarov  to  heal  him.  He  had  fifty  roubles  in 
the  knot  of  his  handkerchief,  he  would  give  it  to  him 
gladly,  and  if  that  was  not  enough  he  would  sell  his 
house,  he  would  give  him  everything,  everything,  if  he 
would  only  heal  him,  if  he  would  only  straighten  him, 
make  him  see  with  ease  that  which  he  now  saw  with 
such  effort.  Eloquently  and  pitifully  he  pleaded  to  him. 
A  fifth  man  was  about  to  speak,  a  man  who  had  seemed 
powerful  once  but  was  now  eaten  away  by  some  wast 
ing  disease.  Having  recovered  from  his  astonishment 
and  grasped  the  situation,  Gombarov  raised  an  inter 
posing  hand  and  said : 

"I  am  sorry,  rebyata*  I  wish  I  could  help  you.  I  am 
afraid  someone  has  been  lying  to  you.  I  am  not  a 
healer." 

The  unhappy  ones  were  incredulous,  they  pleaded  with 
him,  but  at  last  departed.  Gombarov  stood  in  the  door 
way  a  long  time  and  watched  the  strange  company, 
mostly  on  crutches,  limping  away  slowly  and  dejec- 

*  Children. 


184  THE  MASK 

tedly,  murmuring  their  disappointment  among  them 
selves.  He  wanted  to  laugh.  No,  not  at  their  mis 
fortunes.  But  at  that  credulity  which  first  made  a  devil 
of  him,  and  now,  after  his  triumph,  a  Christ.  He  went 
back  to  his  room  and  laughed  at  this  turn  in  affairs.  If 
he  were  a  charlatan  he  could  have  made  a  lot  of  money. 
That  adventure  was  not  the  last,  for  still  they  came,  the 
credulous,  from  more  and  more  distant  parts,  the  blind, 
the  crippled,  the  unhappy.  Pitifully  they  cried  to  him, 
and  sometimes  eloquently.  And  always  they  limped 
away,  that  strange  company  of  unfortunates,  slowly  and 
dejectedly.  Only  when  some  poor  mother  of  the  neigh 
bourhood  came,  bringing  her  babe  suffering  with  colic, 
she  found  Gombarov  ever  ready  to  respond  with  advice 
and  medicine. 

This  excitement  attendant  upon  Gombarov  after  his 
trial  had  not  wholly  subsided  when  he  took  his  depar 
ture  for  America.  And  to  the  last  moment  detectives 
prowled  in  the  neighbourhood,  for  he  was  still  under 
the  surveillance  of  the  police.  Indeed,  there  were  two 
or  three  officials  who  had  helped  to  conduct  the  trial 
who  were  hard  persuaded  to  believe  that  a  man  could 
arouse  sufficient  suspicion  to  be  arrested  and  yet  be  in 
nocent. 

Gombarova  laughed  and  cried  as  she  listened  to  her 
husband's  narrative.  She  was  proud  of  him,  and  trem 
bled  at  his  danger.  She  clung  to  him  at  the  thought 
of  it,  as  though  he  had  not  yet  escaped  it.  And  cleaving 
to  him  a  long  time,  she  at  last  released  her  hold  of  him. 
And  she  sat  near  him  a  long  time,  delighted  with  the 
mere  looking  at  him.  Then  to  break  the  long  silence 
she  asked  him  in  a  casual  way : 

"What  do  you  intend  doing  now  ?" 

As  if  he  had  expected  her  question,  he  put  his  hand 
into  his  pocket  and  drew  something  out,  wrapped  in  tis- 


STEPFATHER  GOMBAROV'S  NEW  VENTURE   185 

sue  paper,  which  he  unfolded,  and  revealed  a  piece  of 

yellow  metal,  cylindrical  in  shape,   rough  and  greyish 

about  its  roundness,  polished  and  golden  at  its  ends.    He 

i  put  one  end  to  his  mouth,  and  blew  his  breath  on  it,  then 

:  rubbed  his  handkerchief   across   it.     Golden  now,   and 

luminous  like  a  mirror,  he  held  it  up  to  her. 

"It's  a  little  present  I've  brought  for  America.  It 
looks  as  good  as  gold,  doesn't  it?  Well,  it  is  as  good 
as  gold,  and  it  can  be  made  as  cheap  as  plated  silver  or 
i  brass.  I  intend  to  make  knives  and  spoons  of  it,  the 
fine  thing  about  it  is  that  it  won't  tarnish,  and  with  a  lit 
tle  trouble  it  will  always  look  as  fine  as  gold,  so  that  it 
will  be  even  within  the  reach  of  the  poor  to  be  'born 
with  a  golden  spoon  in  one's  mouth.'  Just  look  at  it! 
Why,  it's  good  enough  for  a  wedding  ring." 

He  was  quite  lost  in  admiration  of  his  achievement; 
the  gleam  of  his  eyes  answered  the  gleam  of  the  metal; 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  metal  as  on  the  eyes  of  a  be 
loved. 

Gombarova  saw  the  gleam  of  his  eyes  answering  the 
gleam  of  the  metal,  and  her  heart  retreated  from  its  glad 
radiance  into  utter  darkness.  Her  heart  was  a  black 
planet,  gliding  slowly  and  painfully  through  a  mass  of 
black,  unutterably  black  cloud,  pressing  upon  it,  slowly 
and  painfully.  A  black  fog  enveloped  her;  a  black  fog 
was  this  fear  of  the  future,  in  a  black  fog  of  the  great  un 
known  she  sought  her  little  ones,  her  sweet  satellites. 

What  a  sickening  thing,  what  a  blight,  what  a  plague 
upon  life,  worse  than  the  Egyptian  darkness,  was  this 
black  fear,  this  unutterable  fear,  dispersing  the  rays  of 
the  sun,  obliterating  gladness  and  light,  frightening  away 
hopes  one  has  fed  crumbs  to  as  to  glad  white  birds  on 
the  window-sill  of  one's  consciousness,  frightening  away, 
scattering,  setting  on  wing  one's  hopes  in  bird-like,  flock- 
like  terror. 

But  Gombarov  did  not  notice  her  mood.     He  was  quite 


186  THE  MASK 

lost  in  admiration  of  his  achievement,  the  gleam  of  his 
eyes  answered  the  gleam  of  the  metal,  his  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  metal  as  on  the  eyes  of  a  beloved.    He  repeated : 
"It's  good  enough  for  a  wedding  ring." 


CHAPTER  V 

JOHN  LEARNS  THAT  A  GOOD  COIN  RINGS  TRUE  AND  THAT 
A  GOOD  CIGAR  HAS  A  WHITE  ASH 

THE  arrival  of  Gombarov  brought  no  radical  change 
n  the  household.  Life  went  on  as  before.  Gombarova 
md  Raya  and  Dunya  toiled  at  home ;  John,  after  school 
lours,  went  out  to  sell  papers.  And  in  spite  of  all  his 
efforts,  he  remained  a  marked  lad :  boys  frightened  him, 
md  older  men  winked  at  each  other  on  seeing  him.  But 
here  are  always  eccentric  people  in  this  world;  there 
,vere  some  eccentric  enough  to  treat  John  with  exceed- 
ng  kindness.  And  once  or  twice  he  felt  that  this  kind- 
less  was  not  for  the  world,  but  was  meant  for  him  per- 
onally.  He  had  customers  who  always  sought  him  out, 
md  refused  to  buy  of  other  boys. 

"Ah,  my  boy,  I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere," 
ried  a  nice  gentleman,  who  had  come  out  of  the  door 
>f  a  neighbouring  hotel,  though  there  was  a  very  pros- 
>erous  news-stall  in  the  hotel  itself.  And  he  gave  him 
ive  cents  for  a  two-cent  paper.  He  did  this  day  after 
lay. 

And  again  one  day,  a  gentleman,  kindly-eyed  and 
vhite-bearded,  walked  on  some  distance  after  being  ac- 
osted  by  John,  but  turned  back  and  stopped  in  front  of 
he  boy,  the  very  image  of  a  kindly  father.  The  rays 
f  his  benignity  fell  upon  John,  who  smiled,  without 
:nowing  why.  The  old  gentleman,  regarding  John  for 
ome  time,  at  last  drawled  in  a  voice  which  reminded 
me  of  a  thaw: 

187 


i88  THE  MASK 

"Sonny,  what  papers  have  you?" 

Well,  that  was  a  strange  question.  Did  the  old  man 
then  topple  down  from  the  sky,  from  his  golden  seat  at 
the  right  hand  of  God  the  kindly  father;  or  did  he  come 
on  a  ferry-boat,  across  the  river,  from  Camden,  where, 
John  had  been  told,  there  lived  in  huddled,  ugly  little 
houses,  a  race  of  men,  many  of  whom  had  never  beheld 
Chestnut  Street,  the  magnificent?  Quickly  recovering 
himself,  John  named  the  papers,  five  in  number,  in  his 
accustomed  order,  which  merged  the  discordant  sounds 
and  made  for  euphony.  The  old  man  laughed : 

"Sonny,  you  said  it  as  if  it  were  all  the  name  of  one 
paper.  Now  which  one  do  you  recommend?" 

John  scrutinised  the  old  man  and  thought  that  he  was 
prosperous.  He  replied: 

"It  depends.  Rich  men  usually  buy  the  Bulletin.  It's 
a  three-cent  paper." 

The  old  man  chuckled. 

"And  what  paper  do  the  poor  men  buy?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  if  you  are  poor  enough,  you  buy  the  Item.  I 
sell  more  Items  than  anything  else." 

"Sonny,  you'd  better  give  me  both.  You  see,  I'm 
both  rich  and  poor." 

The  old  man  pulled  out  his  purse  and  extracted  a  dime, 
and  as  he  took  his  papers  he  said : 

"Sonny,  you  may  keep  the  change." 

John  watched  the  old  man  go,  and  much  to  his  sur 
prise  he  saw  him  hand  over  the  papers  to  another  news 
boy  a  little  farther  on.  He  pondered :  what  did  the  old 
man  mean  by  saying  he  was  both  rich  and  poor  ?  How 
could  a  man  be  one  and  the  other  at  the  same  time  ?  And 
even  while  he  pondered  over  his  problem,  which  was  to 
have  its  illumination  for  him  many  years  afterwards,  a 
strange  boy,  in  tattered  clothing,  walked  up  to  him,  and 
said  rather  nonchalantly : 


A  GOOD  COIN  RINGS  TRUE  189 

"A  funny  old  duffer  that's  just  bought  the  paper  off 
o'  you,  wasn't  he?" 

John  did  not  reply  at  once  to  the  boy's  question.  He 
felt  hurt  at  the  old  man  being  called  a  duffer.  At  last 
he  said: 

"All  I  can  say  is,  I  wish  there  was  more  duffers  like 
that,  as  you  call  'em.  He  gave  me  a  dime." 

"Don't  take  it  kind  of  personal,  kid,"  said  the  boy.  "A 
man  may  be  a  funny  old  duffer  and  still  be  a  funny  old 
bloke.  Now  when  we  calls  a  man  a  bloke  or  a  duffer  we 
don't  mean  anything  by  it — not  that  some  old  fellows 
ain't  blokes  and  duffers — it's  just  our  manner  of  speak 
ing.  One  can  see  you  ain't  been  in  this  village  long." 

"No,  I  haven't,"  replied  John,  astonished  that  a  boy 
of  that  type  should  talk  to  him  softly. 

"Well,  have  you  had  good  luck  to-day?"  asked  the  boy 
half  indifferently. 

"Not  bad." 

John  jingled  the  coins  in  the  side  pocket  of  his 
breeches. 

The  two  boys  got  quite  chummy  and  were  talking  on 
divers  topics  for  some  time,  when  suddenly  the  boy  in 
the  tattered  suit  asked : 

"Do  you  take  exercises?" 

"Exercises?"  repeated  John,  for  a  moment  puzzled. 

"Yes,  the  monkey  tricks  to  make  you  strong,"  and  the 
ragamuffin  suited  the  action  to  the  word  by  beginning 
to  perform  strange  antics  with  his  arms  and  legs,  work 
ing  them  outwardly  and  inwardly,  in  a  series  of  sharp 
angles,  now  getting  down  in  a  sitting  posture,  now  ris 
ing  erect,  quite  like  a  puppet  on  a  string. 

"You  do  dese  here  monkey  tricks  every  day,  and  you'll 
get  strong,"  resumed  the  boy  as  he  looked  at  John's 
rather  slight  form. 

"I  am  strong,"  said  John  defensively,  wary  at  heart 
of  the  boy's  intentions. 


190  THE  MASK 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  suggested  the  boy,  "1< 
us  see  who  can  lift  each  other  easier  from  the  hip 
You  try  first." 

John  put  his  hands  on  the  boy's  hips  and  lifted  hii 
from  the  ground,  then  put  him  down. 

"Well,  you're  stronger  than  I  thought,"  said  the  bo; 
"but  I  can  hold  you  up  longer." 

He,  in  his  turn,  put  his  hands  on  John's  hips,  lifte 
him,  and  held  him  up  quite  a  long  time.  Then  he  pi 
him  down  slowly. 

"You  see,  I'm  stronger.  That's  what  comes  of  doin 
monkey  tricks  every  day.  I  advise  you  do  the  sam 
But  I  must  be  going  now.  See  you  later.  Ta,  ta! 
And  the  ragamuffin  walked  away  slowly,  his  hands  i 
his  pockets. 

If  John  was  astonished  at  the  boy  chumming  up  wit 
him,  he  was  even  more  astonished  at  himself  being  abl 
to  chum  up  with  the  boy;  the  feeling  was  one  of  eh 
tion.  Barely  had  the  boy  gone  a  few  steps  than  Joh 
put  a  hand  into  his  pocket  in  order  to  jingle  the  mone 
there,  for  it  comforted  him  to  know  that  it  was  a  goo 
day  for  him.  He  no  sooner  put  his  hand  into  his  pock< 
than  a  pang  of  distress  shot  through  him,  and  his  fac 
grew  pale.  His  money  was  gone.  He  realised  at  one 
what  had  happened,  that  the  boy,  lifting  him  at  the  hip; 
had  managed  very  adroitly  to  slip  his  hands  into  hi 
pockets  and  extract  therefrom  all  their  contents.  H 
ran  after  the  boy,  who  was  still  walking  rather  leisure!} 
and  catching  up  with  him,  clutched  him  hard  by  th 
sleeve. 

"I  want  my  money,"  said  John,  panting. 

"What  money?"  asked  the  boy  nonchalantly. 

"The  money  .  .  .  the  money  you  t-took  out  of  m 
pocket  when  you  lifted  me  .  .  ." 

"Stop  yer  kiddin',"  said  the  boy,  assuming  a  surprise 
look.  "I  ain't  got  your  money." 


A  GOOD  COIN  RINGS  TRUE  191 

"What's  that?"  exclaimed  John,  suddenly  feeling  the 
boy's  pocket  with  his  free  hand.  "Look  here,  you'd  bet 
ter  hand  it  over;  there  comes  a  policeman,  and  I'll  tell 
him." 

The  boy  put  a  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  a 
handful  of  coins. 

"That's  not  all,"  said  John,  taking  the  money.  "I 
want  the  rest  of  it." 

"That's  all  I've  got,"  said  the  boy  sullenly. 

"I  had  two  dimes  and  a  nickel  that  are  not  here,"  said 
John.  "You'd  better  give  them  to  me." 

The  boy  thrust  his  hand  once  more  into  his  pocket  and 
handed  John  the  missing  coins.  John  released  his  hold 
of  the  boy  and  walked  back  to  his  corner.  He  trem 
bled  all  over  and  his  knees  shook,  but  his  heart  was  glad 
at  his  narrow  escape.  What  would  they  say  at  home  if 
he  were  to  come  back  without  his  money?  He  would 
be  called  a  Schlemil.  Yes,  and  worse  than  that,  he  would 
see  himself  a  Schlemil  in  his  own  eyes.  He  breathed 
heavily  at  the  thought  of  his  narrow  escape.  And  for  a 
long  time  he  stood  there  lost  in  thought. 

"Pay-per-rs !"  he  suddenly  cried  automatically,  from 
sheer  habit,  for  he  had  no  intention  at  all  of  raising  his 
:ry. 

As  if  in  response  to  his  cry,  a  tall,  automaton-like  man, 
walking  with  a  broad,  automatic  stride,  paused  all  at 
|}nce  in  front  of  John  as  if  his  mechanism  had  quite  sud 
denly  gone  out  of  order.     John  was  startled  out  of  his 
:houghts. 

"Boy,  I  want  a  Star.  And  give  me  my  change  quick. 
[  must  catch  a  train."  And  at  the  same  instant  he  thrust 
i  quarter  into  John's  hand. 

John  gave  the  man  his  paper  and  quickly  counted  out 
:wo  dimes  and  four  cents,  and  gave  them  to  the  man. 
The  man  took  his  paper,  pocketed  the  money,  and  re 
sumed  his  angular  stride.  For  some  moments  his  bowler 


192  THE  MASK 

hat  and  two  sharp  ends  of  moustaches  seen  from  behind 
continued  to  bob  up  and  down  above  the  heads  of  other 
people,  until  they  disappeared  round  the  corner.  John 
jingled  the  coins  in  his  pocket,  but  this  jingling  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with  his  thoughts,  which  were  elsewhere.  His 
head  was  quite  detached  from  the  rest  of  his  body.  The 
cry  "Pay-per-rs !"  came  from  his  throat  at  intervals,  but 
this  too  had  nothing  to  do  with  him. 

Then,  suddenly,  his  hand,  for  perhaps  the  twentieth 
time,  hit  upon  the  quarter  he  had  just  received,  and  it 
struck  him  that  it  might  be  well  to  get  change  for  it, 
in  readiness  for  a  chance  customer  w7ith  a  large  coin. 
And  so  still  jingling  his  coins,  he  walked  a  short  way 
down  the  street  and  turned  into  a  tobacconist's  shop,  a 
small  cell-like  place,  formerly  a  side  entrance  to  the  large 
hotel  of  which  it  was  a  part.  The  tobacconist,  a  little 
man  with  embonpoint,  stood  leaning  against  his  show 
case,  his  legs  crossed,  his  thumbs  in  the  sleeveless  holes 
of  his  waist-coat,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  the  ash  from 
which,  falling,  grazed  the  outermost  line  of  his  middle, 
and  being  a  white  ash  it  lay  there  an  eloquent  witness 
to  the  quality  of  the  cigar. 

"Well,  sonny,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked, 
beaming  good-naturedly  upon  the  boy,  as  he  took  up  his 
place  behind  the  show-case. 

John  barely  peeped  with  his  eyes  across  the  high  show 
case,  and  put  down  his  quarter  on  the  round  piece  of 
rubber  with  projecting  points  for  the  reception  of  coins. 
"Please  let  me  have  some  change,"  he  said. 

The  little  man  picked  up  the  coin,  and  his  face  could 
not  have  undergone  a  more  drastic  change  if  he  had 
picked  up  a  live  snake.  The  many  little  smiling  lines 
wriggled  downward  to  make  up  a  frown. 

"My  boy,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  know  you  can  get 
pinched  for  shoving  the  queer."* 

*  Shoving  the  queer:  passing  counterfeit  money. 


A  GOOD  COIN  RINGS  TRUE  193 

John  grew  pale. 

"What  do  you  m-mean?"  he  asked  in  a  faltering  voice. 

"Now  don't  act  the  innocent,  you  know  it's  a  bad 
quarter. " 

"I  really  didn't  know/'  John  defended  himself.  "A 
man  just  gave  it  to  me,  and  I  gave  him  twenty-four  cents 
change." 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  you've  been  done.  Do  you 
see  the  difference?" — the  little  man  pulled  out  a  quarter 
out  of  his  cash  drawer,  and  flung  it  down  on  the  floor. 
"Hear  how  it  rings!  Now  watch  the  other."  And  he 
flung  down  the  bad  coin  in  the  same  way.  It  gave  forth 
a  dull  sound.  Then  he  thought  he  ought  to  moralise 
a  little :  "It's  the  same  with  men.  Some  men  ring 
good  and  true,  some  men  are  counterfeit,  they  look  all 
right,  but  are  made  of  lead.  Now  look  at  me" — John 
thought  he  was  made  of  fat  and  wouldn't  ring  at  all  if 
flung  down  on  the  floor — "I  haven't  made  a  dishonest 
penny  in  my  life.  It's  true,  I'm  not  rich,  but  I'm  as 
good  as  anybody.  In  fact,  a  good  man'  is  like  a  good 
cigar.  The  best  cigar  in  the  world  is  worth  so  much. 
If  you  wanted  to  pay  more  you  couldn't  get  a  better 
one.  And  you  can  always  tell  a  good  cigar  by  its  smell 
and  its  white  ash." 

John  pondered  on  this  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he 
asked : 

"But  how  can  you  tell  a  good  man  from  a  bad  one 
— that  he  won't  stick  his  hand  in  your  pocket  or  give  you 
a  bad  coin?" 

This  seemed  to  make  the  man  angry. 

"How  can  you  tell  ?"  he  exclaimed  in  a  rasping  voice, 
"Keep  your  two  lamps  wide  open,  young  man,  and 
you'll  know  quick  enough.  What  were  your  two  eyes 
given  you  for?" 

John  did  not  know.  The  boy  who  put  his  hands  in 
John's  pockets  had  also  two  eyes,  the  man  who  gave  him 


194  THE  MASK 

the  lead  quarter  had  the  same  number.  How  did  these 
two  use  their  eyes?  Those  two  kept  them  wide  open 
in  order  to  cheat  him,  John  Gombarov.  Did  it  follow 
then  that  if  he,  John  Gombarov,  kept  his  eyes  wide  open 
he  could  cheat  some  one  else? 

John  picked  up  his  lead  quarter  from  the  rubber  disc 
and  slunk  out  of  the  shop,  a  whipped  dog,  with  his  tail 
between  his  legs. 

Of  course  not! — he  went  on  to  the  conclusion,  as  he 
resumed  his  place  on  his  corner — he  must  keep  his  eyes 
wide  open  merely  to  keep  cheats  from  him,  merely  to  keep 
them  from  sticking  their  hands  into  his  pockets,  or  giv 
ing  him  lead  quarters.  Must  he  then  suspect  everyone? 
Must  he  then  keep  his  hand  on  his  pocket,  ring  every 
coin  he  received  from  a  customer?  Life  was  becoming 
a  great  problem. 

He  was  about  to  cry  automatically  his  cry,  but  it  died 
in  his  throat,  for  his  hand  at  that  moment  fell  upon  that 
lead  quarter  in  his  pocket.  What  was  he  to  do  with 
it?  Was  he  to  try  to  pass  it  on  some  one  else?  That 
quarter  represented  more  than  half  his  earnings  for  the 
afternoon.  He  was  again  about  to  cry  automatically 
his  cry,  but  once  more  it  died  in  his  throat.  There  was 
no  cry  left  in  him. 

He  absently  watched  the  people  go  by,  and  he  thought : 
If  he  could  only  turn  them  into  coins,  or  into  cigars! 
Then  he  would  ring  them  to  see  whether  they  were  good 
or  bad,  or  he  would  take  a  puff  at  them  to  see  whether 
they  had  a  white  or  a  black  ash.  But  then  this  last  might 
make  him  sick,  for  he  had  not  yet  learned  to  smoke,  and 
God  alone  knew  how  many  cigars  he  might  find  with  the 
black  ash. 

The  cry  he  was  about  to  cry  died  in  his  throat. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AN  ENTRANCE  AND  AN  EXIT THE  CLASH  OF  TWO  WILLS, 

A    THIRD    INTERVENING 

IT  was  not  many  weeks  before  stepfather  Gombarov 
installed  himself  in  a  workshop  at  the  top  of  a  four- 
story  house  in  Arch  street.  This  building  had  an  ad 
vantage  for  him  in  that  he  could  get  so  much  horse 
power  from  the  machine-shop  below. 

Small  pieces  of  machinery  kept  on  arriving  for  him 
from  Russia,  the  experimental  remainders  from  his  vil 
lage  laboratory,  the  place  of  his  late  adventure.  He  had 
begun  to  buy  the  larger  pieces,  as  far  as  he  could  get 
them,  in  Philadelphia.  But  there  were  many  small 
pieces  unobtainable  here,  and  he  had  to  send  for  these  to 
Germany.  His  small  capital  began  to  dwindle  alarm 
ingly. 

All  this  took  weeks  and  weeks,  looking  backward  you 
counted  the  months.  Gombarov's  one  great  drawback 
was  his  ignorance  of  the  language.  It  was  true  that  he 
managed  to  read  an  English  technical  book,  but  every 
day  speech  was  beyond  him.  Occasionally  he  found  his 
German  useful  in  dealing  with  American  firms,  but  at 
other  times  he  was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  an  inter 
preter,  and  as  he  was  in  his  oriental,  discursive  way  a 
sociable  man,  he  sometimes  picked  up  in  the  Jewish  com 
munity,  in  which  his  genius  found  admirers,  a  young 
man  willing  to  offer  his  services  as  interpreter.  But 
strange  man  that  he  was,  his  acquaintance  extended  into 
the  most  curious  quarters,  and  the  tenement  in  which  the 

i95 


196  THE  MASK 

Gombarov  family  dwelt  was  astonished  by  the  frequent 
visits  of  a  German  Lutheran  pastor,  which,  however,  did 
not  hinder  a  devout  Jew,  even  one  with  side  locks,  from 
crossing  the  Gombarov  threshold.  No  one  who  knew 
Gombarov  worried  about  the  matter,  but  there  were  some 
who  feared  lest  the  pastor  become  a  Jew,  for  the  Jews 
do  not  like  proselytes.  But  there  was  no  danger  of  one 
or  the  other  happening.  It  is  true,  Gombarov  was 
known  as  a  sceptic,  but  he  was  a  sceptic  within  his  faith, 
not  outside  of  it;  he  acknowledged  in  his  own  way  the 
lordship  of  Adonai,  whose  face  is  not  to  be  seen  by  a 
mortal,  and  whose  name  Jehovah,  though  written,  is 
never  uttered  by  pious  Jews ;  yet  he  took  a  delight  when 
the  chance  offered  to  prove  his  God  in  the  wrong.  For 
he  was  an  intellectual  sceptic,  not  an  emotional  one,  and 
his  God  loved  a  jest  and  an  argument.  He  held  forth 
in  this  vein  before  Jews  only;  before  Gentiles  he  stood 
up  for  God  as  one  might  for  one's  own  beloved  father, 
who  in  his  great  love  and  wisdom  could  not  make  a  mis 
take  or  do  a  wrong.  But  he  feared  the  German  pas 
tor's  faith  so  little  that  he  did  not  hesitate  to  send  his 
own  eldest  child,  Katya,  now  seven,  to  the  school  at 
tached  to  the  Reverend  Schultz's  church,  in  order  that 
she  might  learn  German.  The  little  girl  would  come 
home  and  recite  her  ten  commandments  in  German,  and 
sometimes  a  sentence  with  the  words,  lesu  Christi  and 
Heilige  Gcist,  which  brought  a  smile  to  her  father's  face. 
This  evoked  a  vigorous  remonstrance  from  Gombarov's 
brother,  lakov,  who  still  kept  his  small  dyeing  estab 
lishment  a  few  doors  away.  One  day  when  lakov  spoke 
with  greater  warmth  than  usual,  Gombarov  seized  the 
child  by  the  sleeve,  and  asked  lakov : 

"Didn't  you  once  dye  that  blouse  blue  ?" 

lakov  looked  rather  guilty. 

"Well,  you  know  you  did,"  went  on  Gombarov.  "And 
it's  almost  grey  again.  One  more  wash  and  it  will  be 


AN  ENTRANCE  AND  AN  EXIT  197 

as  it  was  before.  That  shows  that  the  original  dye  is 
stronger  than  the  one  put  on.  You  ought  to  know  our 
Gombarov  blood.  Anything  that  touches  us  can  only 
touch  us  like  your  miserable  dyes.  I  want  my  little  girl 
to  know  German,  and  when  all  is  said  and  done,  that 
is  the  only  thing  that  will  stick  to  her — or  you  don't 
know  the  Gombarovs." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knock.  Pastor  Schultz 
came  in.  lakov  went  out.  Pastor  Schultz  stayed 
nearly  two  hours  and  talked  science  with  his  host  over 
tall  tumblers  of  Russian  tea  with  lemon.  He  promised 
to  go  with  Gombarov  next  day  to  help  him  buy  parts  of 
mechanism,  to  be  his  English  interpreter. 

A  few  days  later  Gombarov's  faith  in  the  Gombarov 
blood  was  somewhat  shaken  by  the  appearance  of  a 
stranger  on  the  threshold,  a  big  brawny  man  of  about 
twenty-eight,  healthily  ruddy  in  complexion,  very  clean 
shaven  except  for  a  full-grown  moustache,  big-shoul 
dered,  big-fisted,  sturdy-legged,  yet  constructed  alto 
gether  rather  loosely,  like  one  who  got  his  muscle  not 
by  Swedish  drill  or  college  games  but  by  heavy  outdoor 
work.  The  slight  bagginess  of  his  garments  added  to, 
rather  than  detracted  from,  the  sense  of  his  graceful, 
animal-like  strength.  When  Gombarova  opened  the 
door  to  him  her  first  impulse  was  to  tell  him  in  her  broken 
English  that  he  had  found  the  wrong  door,  but  her  sec 
ond  thought  upon  hearing  him  pronounce  Gombarov's 
name  was  that  he  was  another  one  of  those  Russian 
spies,  who  from  time  to  time  still  pestered  Gombarov, 
even  at  such  a  distance  from  the  place  of  his  last  Rus 
sian  adventure.  But  much  to  the  surprise  of  all  he 
turned  out  to  be  Gombarov's  own  brother,  Israel,  or 
Sroolik — as  he  was  known  at  home,  from  which  he  ran 
away  as  a  boy  and  went  to  America  to  see  life  and  to 
make  his  fortune. 

Everyone  was  overjoyed  at  seeing  him,  outwardly  be- 


198  THE  MASK 

cause  he  was  a  kinsman,  but  deep  down  because  of  the 
sense  of  adventure  he  brought  to  all. 

"Mr.  Gombarov,  do1  sit  down  and  have  supper  with 
us,"  said  Gombarova,  "the  girls  are  getting  it  ready." 

"Gladly,"  replied  the  newly-found  kinsman.  "But 
really  Mrs.  Gombarov,  I  must  tell  you  that  for  practical 
purposes  I've  changed  rny  name.  I  am  no  longer  Israel 
Bogdanovitch  Gombarov,  but  simply  Sam  Carney.  I 
know  it  must  appear  funny  to  you,  but  I  had  to  do  i*t." 

And  over  the  supper  table  he  told  his  story  in  a  few 
words. 

He  came  to  America  at  seventeen.  He  had  a  few 
dollars  left  and  knew  a  little  mechanics.  But  as  he  did 
not  know  the  language  the  last  was  of  no  good  to  him. 
He  invested  a  part  of  his  small  fund  in  a  pedlar's  pack, 
and  walked  about  with  it  in  the  streets  of  New  York. 
He  managed  to  make  a  bare  living,  earning  more  insults 
than  pennies.  He  went  to  night  school  and  learnt  a  lit 
tle  English.  In  the  street  he  learnt  that  it  was  an  evil 
thing  to  be  a  Jew,  in  America  as  elsewhere.  He  learnt 
yet  another  thing.  To  be  a  Jew  was  not  so  much  to 
have  a  religion  as  an  occupation.  The  Jews  who  were 
agriculturists  in  ancient  Judea  were  one  race.  The  mod 
ern  Jews  who  were  bankers,  tradesmen  and  pedlars  were 
another.  This  new  race  was  for  the  most  part  a  prod 
uct  of  suggestion.  Unconsciously,  through  a  thousand 
and  one  hints,  it  has  tried  to  live  up  to  the  Gentiles'  idea 
of  it.  The  Jew  in  life  had  become  an  actor,  playing  the 
role  of  the  stage  Jew.  And  as  one  could  commonly  tell 
a  blacksmith,  a  farmer,  a  professional  actor,  a  clerk,  an 
artist,  a  navvy,  a  detective,  a  crook,  so  one  might  also 
tell  a  Jew  by  his  occupation  of  "Jewishness"  which  his 
neighbours  have  forced  upon  him. 

At  least,  that  was  how  life  appeared  to  him,  Sroolik, 
as  he  walked  the  streets  of  New  York,  a  dark,  curly- 
haired  lad  with  his  pedlar's  pack.  He  knew  what  it  was 


AN  ENTRANCE  AND  AN  EXIT  199 

to  be  a  Jew  pedlar,  the  object  of  ridicule  and  reviling. 
He  knew  well  that  sense  of  shrinking  within  oneself 
under  these  unprovoked  assaults,  that  sense  of  rage  and 
seething  hidden  under  his  smiling  mask;  and  one  day 
he  felt  the  presence  of  a  newly  born  desire,  as  yet  no 
larger  than  a  small  seed,  of  getting  the  better  of  his 
tormentors  by  craft  and  guile.  And  quite  of  itself,  from 
that  dark  unknown  place,  whence  all  thoughts  come, 
came  the  thought,  insinuating  and  seductive:  these  peo 
ple,  who  laughed  at  him  and  bought  from  him  at  the 
same  time,  clearly  expected  to  be  cheated.  Why  not 
cheat  them  then  and  satisfy  them?  And  he  began  to 
understand  that  life  was  a  game. 

Afterward  it  occurred  to  him  that  if  life  were  indeed  a 
game,  he  would  play  it  more  subtly.  Instead  of  getting 
into  a  so-called  Jewish  skin,  especially  prepared  for  Jews 
by  Gentiles,  he  made  up  his  mind  one  day,  after  much 
thought  and  not  a  few  qualms,  that  it  was  by  far  the 
better  plan  to  get  into  one  of  the  skins  prepared  by  Gen 
tiles  for  themselves.  The  process  of  shedding  his  own 
Jewish  skin  and  getting  into  a  Gentile  one  was  not  easy; 
he  knew  it  would  need  all  his  effort,  patience  and  en 
durance,  but  he  knew  it  could  be  done.  The  certainty 
of  it  gave  him  courage.  A  simple  accident  confirmed 
his  judgment. 

It  was  March  I7th — St.  Patrick's  Day — and  as  he 
stood  with  his  wares  in  one  of  New  York's  thorough 
fares,  a  gang  of  hoodlums,  each  with  a  green  clover  in 
the  lapel  of  his  coat,  passed  him  by  with  a  derisive  guf 
faw.  He  felt  his  face  grow  pale,  at  the  same  time  a 
protective  smile  lurked  round  his  lips  and  eyes  and  strove 
to  unbend  the  blank  rigidity  of  his  face,  which  refused 
to  unbend.  The  hoodlums  passed  on.  Behind  the  hood 
lums  came  a  tall  well-built  man,  dressed  like  other  men 
except  for  a  large  sombrero  hat.  His  face  was  brown 
and  full  of  active  lines.  There  was  a  green  clover  in 


200  THE  MASK 

the  lapel  of  his  coat  He  glanced  at  Sroolik  and  was 
about  to  pass  on,  but  changed  his  mind  and  paused  in 
front  of  the  boy.  Sroolik's  heart  jumped.  "Look 
here,  my  boy,"  he  said,  planting  Jiimself  hard  on  his  out 
spread  feet  and  eyeing  Sroolik  with  a  steady  deliberate 
gaze,  "I  don't  want  to  buy  anything,  but  I  like  your  face, 
and  so  I'm  going  to  give  a  piece  of  good  advice,  gratis. 
Now  don't  mind  me,  kid,  if  I'm  a  bit  fresh  in  my  way 
of  speaking.  You  see,  I'm  a  circus  cowboy  and  bronco 
busting  is  more  in  my  line.  Now,  you  wouldn't  take 
me  for  one  of  God's  own  chosen  people,  would  you? 
Well,  I  am.  But  one  day  I  got  tired  of  it.  Thought 
I'd  do  a  bit  of  my  own  choosing.  So,  one  day  I  got  so 
mad  that  I  flung  my  pedlar's  pack,  one  like  you've  got 
now,  at  the  face  of  a  human  monkey  who  dared  to  throw 
a  bouquet  of  insults  at  yours  truly;  there  was  a  scrim 
mage,  result :  he  got  two  black  eyes  and  I  got  seven  days. 
When  I  got  out  I  didn't  go  back  to  my  pedlar's  job, 
b'cause  I  was  tired  of  lis'ning  to  words  that  weren't 
music  to  my  ear.  Since  then  I've  been  everything  under 
the  sun — from  a  saloon  bouncer  to  a  bronco  buster.  And 
the  moon  has  no  cause  to  be  jealous,  either,  for  I've 
been  a  moonshiner  in  my  day.  Gave  it  up  b'cause  it  was 
a  dangerous  business,  you  always  had  to  have  your  eyes 
skinned  for  U.S.A.  cops.  Now  I'm  with  a  Wild  West 
show,  always  on  the  road.  Now  if  I  was  your  age  again, 
I  could  do  anything  I  liked.  I  could  become  a  Cos 
sack,  a  Zulu,  or  a  Bashi-bazook,  and  I  warrant  you  I'd 
do  as  well  as  any  of  those  species  we've  got  in  our  show 
now.  For  all  that,  I'm  a  Jew,  though  none  of  my  pals 
know  it,  and  it's  a  long  time  since  I've  said  my  Shcma 
Israel*  Between  you  and  me  and  those  collar-buttons 
you've  got  there,  I  don't  believe  God's  ever  crossed  this 
side  of  the  pond.  It's  true  our  spondulix  says  'In  God 

*  The  famous  Hebrew  prayer :     "Hear  O  Israel,  the  Lord  our 
God,  He  is  One." 


AN  ENTRANCE  AND  AN  EXIT  201 

we  trust/  but  I'm  inclined  to  think  that's  a  mistake 
in  spelling.  They've  somehow  left  the  T  out.  And  so 
my  boy,  I  say  to  you :  Chuck ,  it !  Get  your  hair  cut ! 
Straighten  your  face  out !  Go  to  Brooklyn  Bridge,  push 
that  tray  of  shoe  strings  and  collar  buttons  over  the  edge, 
and  don't  stop  to  watch  the  ripples.  Then  go  to  the 
highest  building  in  the  city,  put  five  fingers  to  your  nose, 
and  turn  east,  west,  north  and  south,  like  a  weather 
cock  in  a  cyclone.  Then  say  'Damn!'  three  times,  and 
go  to  some  quiet  spot  and  turn  a  somersault.  Then  go 
to  a  Turkish  bath,  and  steam  yourself  until  you've 
steamed  out  all  your  pedlar's  sins  and  kinks  out  of  your 
system.  Then  rig  yourself  out  all  new  from  head  to 
foot  so  that  you  won't  know  yourself,  and  be  neither 
Jew  nor  Gentile  but  just  a  man.  If  you  must  say  Shcma 
Israel,  say  it  on  the  q.  t.  all  to  yourself.  If  there  is  a 
God  He'll  hear  you,  if  there  isn't,  it  don't  make  any  dif 
ference.  In  this  world,  my  boy,  one  mustn't  mind  be 
ing  a  sheep  in  wolf's  clothing.  So  just  chuck  this,  chuck 
it,  I  say.  D'you  understand  me?" 

He  looked  at  Sroolik  and  saw  that  he  did,  whereupon 
he  grasped  the  boy's  right  hand,  pressed  it  tightly,  with  a 
"Good  luck  to  you!"  and  passed  on. 

Sroolik  unfolded  his  fist :  there  was  a  crumpled  five- 
dollar  note  lying  in  his  hand.  He  stood  there  as  in  a 
trance,  and  the  derisive  world  went  by  deriding  and 
touched  him  not.  He  looked  up  at  a  prospective  buyer 
with  the  astonishment  of  one  wakened  from  a  dream. 

Next  day  he  went  again  with  his  wares,  and  the  day 
after,  and  the  day  after,  but  his  heart  was  no  longer  in 
it,  something  troubled  him  within;  it  was  as  if  the 
stranger  had  put  a  new  soul  into  his  body,  and  this  new 
soul  had  not  yet  wholly  ejected  the  other  soul,  his  old 
one. 

Who  was  the  stranger?  Was  he  just  a  man  with  a 
good  heart,  or  was  he  a  devil  come  to  seduce  him  from 


THE  MASK 

as  he  a  messenger  of  God  come  to  him 
^ers  were  wont  to  come  to  men  in  bibli- 
an  guise,  even  in  that  of  a  bronco-buster? 
the  humour  of  it,  at  his  own  credulity, 
mattered  it?     Whether  the  stranger  was  a 
i,  or  a  messenger  of  God,  it  was  all  the  same 
And  it  was  all  the  same  to  him  whether  he  had 
.n  him  the  seed  of  a  fine  fruit,  or  a  drop  of  sub- 
,  he  could  not  crush  it  and  he  could  not  help 
,oey. 

erhaps  he   dreamt  it  all?     But  no,   there  was  the 
ampled  five-dollar  note  in  his  pocket,  which  he  looked 
t  again  and   again.     Was  the  note   then  counterfeit? 
No,  it  was  quite  good.     An  acquaintance  of  his  had  of 
fered  to  borrow  it. 

But  he  was  discontented  with  his  own  hesitation,  with 
his  tardiness  to  obey  a  voice  so  urgent  and  imperative. 

"At  last  I  gave  in,"  went  on  Sroolik  in  a  broken  Yid 
dish,  "I  made  up  my  mind  to  shed  my  old  skin  and  graft 
on  a  new  one.  I  took  the  greatest  pains  to  study  the 
language  of  the  people.  I  gave  up  my  pedlar's  job, 
and  tried  my  hand  at  everything.  I've  worked  as  a  mill 
hand,  as  a  carpenter's  assistant,  as  a  blacksmith's  assist 
ant,  as  a  farm  hand;  I've  been  a  tramp  and  have  trav 
elled  through  the  states  hanging  on  to  freight  cars,  I 
have  harvested  in  Kansas  and  picked  oranges  in  Califor 
nia;  I've  worked  at  coke  ovens  near  Pittsburg  and  laid 
rails  in  Texas — my  last  job  was  as  foreman  of  a  railway 
gang — mostly  Dagoes  and  Niggers;  not  one  of  them  sus 
pected  I  was  a  Jew ;  if  anyone  asked  me  my  religion  I'd 
tell  them  I  was  a  Baptist.  And  so  you  see  I'm  right  in 
saying  that  being  a  Jew  is  a  matter  of  occupation.  Look 
at  what  tramping,  the  most  un-Jewish  of  all  occupa 
tions,  has  done  to  me.  It's  completely  un-Jewed  me. 
And  there  is  brother  Baruch  in  Texas.  You  know  what 
Baruch  was  like.  Baruch  is  doing  book-keeping  for  a 


AN  ENTRANCE  AND  AN  EXIT  203 

living,  and  philosophy  on  the  side — for  his  pleasure. 
Baruch  spends  all  his  spare  time  studying  Kant,  Spinoza, 
Hume,  Spencer,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  intellectual 
bunch;  he  knows  Latin  and  Greek  as  well  as  he  knows 
Hebrew,  and  German  and  French  as  well  as  he  knows 
American.  But  to  look  at  him,  if  you  had  three  guesses, 
you  might  take  him  as  easily  for  an  Italian  as  for  an 
Irishman  or  a  Frenchman.  Well,  you'll  see  for  your 
self,  for  Baruch  is  thinking  of  coming  East  again.  It 
was  he  who  told  me  that  you  were  here.  The  folks  at 
home  wrote  to  him." 

"Well,  Sroolik,"  said  Gombarov  with  a  laugh,  "you've 
developed  an  interesting  theory,  and  what  is  more,  as 
far  as  you  are  concerned,  you've  certainly  put  it  into 
practice.  In  fact,  you'd  send  your  father  to  his  grave 
if  he  saw  you." 

"By  the  way,  how  is  the  old  governor?"  broke  in 
Sroolik,  alias  Sam  Carney.  "Is  he  still  counting  the 
three-dollar  bills  he's  putting  away  in  the  Almighty's  cash 
box?" 

"Yes,  I  dare  say  he's  piling  up  a  fortune  for  himself 
in  the  other  world.  He  will  be  one  of  its  multi-mil 
lionaires." 

"After  all,"  observed  Sroolik,  "there's  not  much  dif 
ference  between  him  and  the  nun  a  Russian  chap  had 
told  me  about  in  the  course  of  my  travels.  She  was  a 
very  pious  nun,  who  spent  almost  all  her  time  in  prayer, 
and  she  refused  to  eat  anything  for  days  at  a  time.  Her 
sister  nuns  got  so  alarmed  about  her  that  at  the  end  of 
many  days  they  used  to  place  before  her  a  large  tray  of 
the  most  delicious  things  such  as  roast  pheasant,  new 
potatoes  in  butter,  macaroni  au  gratin,  young  asparagus 
dipped  in  cream,  pancakes — also  dipped  in  cream — an 
omelette  of  a  dozen  canary  eggs,  a  dish  of  imported 
fruits,  a  glass  of  port,  and  other  such  things,  calculated 
to  tickle  the  ordinary  mortal's  nostrils  with  their  de- 


204  THE  MASK 

licious  smell  and  to  seduce  the  most  virtuous  palate. 
But  this  nun  simply  refused  to  take  anything,  and  to  all 
temptations  offered  by  her  worried  sisters  she  had  but 
one  answer:  Tm  going  to  eat  in  the  other  world/ 
What  can  you  do  with  people  like  that?" 

Everyone  laughed.  Only  lakov  was  indignant, 
lakov,  like  all  good  Jews,  prayed  three  times  a  day,  and 
followed  each  prayer  with  a  meal.  In  the  intervals  he 
dyed  faded  garments,  which,  much  to  his  patrons'  dis-5 
gust,  usually  resented  being  sent  to  the  wash. 

It  was  decided  to  instal  Sroolik  in  the  attic  taken  by 
Gombarov  on  his  arrival  from  Russia.  Gombarov  found 
his  brother  useful  in  arranging  his  machine-shop,  and 
also  as  interpreter. 

Sroolik  had  a  good-natured  contempt  for  his  broth 
er's  ideas,  which  he  considered  visionary.  Indeed  he 
thought  his  brother  was  wasting  good  money  on  a  lot 
of  junk.  This  opinion  was  shared  by  the  clerks  in  the 
machine  firms  where  Gombarov  did  his  purchasing,  and 
more  than  once  when  Gombarov  had  his  back  turned 
Sroolik  was  not  above  exchanging  a  wink  with  them. 
Frankly,  they  thought  him  a  "crank." 

Sroolik  was  on  his  good  behaviour  for  three  weeks. 
Then  one  day,  while  Gombarov  was  out,  he  came  home 
quite  drunk.  Gombarova  was  quite  alarmed,  all  the 
more  since  he  demanded  money. 

Such  a  thing  had  never  happened  in  the  Gombarov 
household  before,  on  either  side  of  the  family.  Not 
within  the  memory  of  anyone.  To  have  a  jolly  time  on 
festal  days  and  nights,  at  home  or  at  the  house  of  a 
friend,  was  one  thing :  wine  would  flow  and  there  would 
be  singing,  the  flute  and  the  fiddle  would  urge  the  dancers 
on,  ribald  stories  would  be  told  and  laughter  would 
sound,  every-day  proprieties  would  be  thrust  out  of 
doors  to  knock  and  to  knock,  unheard  by  any  ear,  until 
joy  had  had  her  fling!  But  to  have  a  man  come  home 


AN  ENTRANCE  AND  AN  EXIT  205 

on  a  workaday,  deliberately  drunk  on  foul  whiskey  at 
a  public  house,  while  the  midday  sun  was  yet  in  the 
sky,  come  home  sodden  and  morose,  spitting  out  pro 
fanities,  his  attitude  full  of  menace — well,  that  was  quite 
another  thing.  As  far  as  Gombarova  could  gather  from 
his  thick,  confused  speech  he  wanted  money.  He 
thought  his  brother  was  wasting  good  money  on  useless 
junk,  and  he,  Sroolik,  alias  Sam  Carney,  could  put  some 
of  it  to  better  use:  the  world,  in  fact,  owed  him  a  liv 
ing,  and  he  might  as  well  collect  it  from  his  brother, 
before  all  the  money  was  gone.  In  short,  he  wanted 
money.  He  thought  she  must  have  some  about. 

Never  before  had  Gombarova  faced  such  a  situation. 
Some  of  her  little  ones  clinging  to  her  skirts  in  frantic 
fear,  she  did  everything  she  could  to  calm  him,  but  see 
ing  that  this  had  no  effect  she  threatened  to  call  a  po 
liceman.  To  her  great  joy,  Gombarov  came  home  at 
this  awkward  moment. 

Upon  seeing  his  brother,  Sroolik  slunk  out  of  the 
door.  For  some  minutes  his  loud,  drunken  footfalls 
could  be  heard  on  the  stairs  as  he  made  his  way  to  his 
attic,  where  he  flung  himself  on  his  bed. 

"I've  never  seen  a  Jew  drunk  in  that  way  before," 
said  Gombarov.  "He  thinks  there  is  no  God  in  Amer 
ica,  and  so  he  can  do  as  he  likes.  That's  his  idea  of 
being  free.  But  where  there  is  no  responsibility  there 
is  no  freedom.  My  pious  father,  for  all  his  habits  and 
ridiculous  side  locks,  is  a  much  more  free  man,  for  in 
spite  of  all  his  political  bondage  he  dares  to  be  himself. 
Sroolik  wants  to  be  like  others.  He  has  taken  some  of 
their  virtues,  but  also  all  their  vices.  For  such  is  the 
nature  of  things :  you  can't  have  one  without  the  other. 
And  it's  always  easier  to  take  the  vices." 

"Woe  to  Columbus,"  said  Gombarova. 

Towards  evening,  after  he  had  sobered  down,  Sroolik 
tied  up  his  little  bundle  of  personal  belongings  and 


206  THE  MASK 

walked  out  of  the  house,  once  more  Sam  Carney.    Many 
days  and  weeks  passed  and  no  one  saw  anything  of  him. 

Gombarov  missed  his  brother's  services,  especially  in 
his  role  as  interpreter.  And  before  long  there  came  a 
day  when  he  wanted  to  make  inquiries  at  the  offices  of 
a  firm  about  a  new  piece  of  mechanism  and  had  need  of 
some  one  to  speak  for  him,  and  no  one  was  available 
that  day  among  his  friends.  In  the  last  resort,  he 
thought  of  John.  He  would  take  John  to  speak  for 
him.  He  communicated  this  desire  to  his  wife,  who 
in  turn  communicated  it  to  John. 

John  demurred  and  said  he  would  not  go.  He  had  his 
lessons  to  study.  But  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  was  not 
the  reason,  and  that  his  unwillingness  to  go  was  due  to 
his  fear  of  men,  even  apart  from  his  limited  knowledge 
of  their  language;  he  was  still  a  wood  goblin,  uncon 
sciously  more  familiar  with  the  soft  rustle  of  trees  than 
with  the  harsh  twang  of  men;  he  knew  that  if  he  went 
with  his  step-father,  he  would  stammer  and  stutter  and 
make  himself  uncommonly  ridiculous. 

"Ask  Dunya  to  go,"  he  pleaded  with  his  mother. 

She  knew  the  wrath  of  her  husband,  and  so  she  argued 
with  John,  who  felt  something  in  himself  growing  harder 
every  moment,  and  his  mother's  speech  was  like  a  gentle 
saw  which  in  sawing  had  struck  an  insurmountable  ob 
struction,  the  very  heart  of  a  small  log.  His  stepfather 
who  was  waiting  in  the  next  room,  came  to  the  open  door 
at  that  moment  and  stood  listening.  His  face  was  pale 
with  anger.  He  was  like  a  sharp  steel  axe  lifted,  wait 
ing  to  strike  at  the  stubborn  obstruction.  He  happened 
to  be  holding  at  that  moment  a  hundred-dollar  note  in 
his  hand  which  he  had  just  drawn  from  the  bank  for  a 
new  purchase,  and  in  his  rage  he  was  on  the  point  of 
tearing  it  in  two.  Gombarova  threw  herself  at  him, 
to  prevent  him. 


AN  ENTRANC 

"For  the  sake  of  my 

He  desisted.     He  d; 
said  he  would  take  T 

John  was  not  haf 
tie,  all  the  while  t<- 
self,  then  offered 
barov  would  hr 
for  days  afte1 

Gombarov 
but  there  v 
on  the  bn 


ing  upor 
heart. 


ei  r 


20% 

ded. 
jing.     He 

waited  a  lit- 

Je  with  him- 

:.     But  Gom- 

affered  acutely 

household  tasks, 
'd  with  her  hand 
.er  eyes,  follow- 
he  womb  to  the 


CHAPTER  VII 

JOHN  LEARNS  OF  MYSTERIES  IN   THE  NIGHT 

NIGHT,  blessed  night.  Sweet  is  the  dear,  lightly 
breathing  creature,  even  in  a  stone  city.  Delicious  the 
crisp,  dustless  air  in  the  street,  clean-swept  by  water  of 
day  chaos  and  day  dust.  Delicious  the  enticing  smell  of 
fresh  bread  coming  up  from  the  open  cellar  of  a  bun- 
shop.  Fantastic  the  echoing  sound  of  loud  footfalls, 
which  approach  you  from  round  the  corner  and  go  on, 
and  die  away  somewhere.  Refreshing  the  sight  of  a 
waggon  of  fruit  going  down  toward  the  river.  Strange 
the  interludes  of  silence,  before  and  after. 

A  tall  man  in  black  evening  dress  goes  by ;  there  is  an 
air  of  smartness  about  him  as  he  twists  his  small  bris 
tling  moustaches  and  swings  his  cane;  when  he  passes 
under  the  gas  lamp  the  glare  catches  his  shining  high 
hat,  sends  a  perpendicular  gleam  of  light  the  whole  length 
of  its  cylindrical  shape;  then,  after  a  little  while,  the 
darkness  swallows  him;  his  blithe  footfalls  make  one 
think :  "He  is  coming  from  the  club,  he  has  won  a  pot 

of  money  at  poker."  Or  else :  "He  has  been  to " 

— but  never  mind,  there  are  some  things  which  had  bet 
ter  remain  mysteries. 

And  from  the  same  darkness  which  swallowed  him 
still  another  figure  emerges,  that  of  a  woman,  in  a  dark 
dress;  how  slowly  and  how  noiselessly  she  walks,  there 
is  no  sound  of  footfalls  to  herald  her  coming;  how  pale 
her  face,  but  faintly  graven  with  features  in  the  pale 
half  light,  under  the  broad  brim  of  her  hat;  how  red  the 

208 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  209 

full  lips  of  her  now  upturned  face,  only  the  mouth  and 
chin  in  the  full  light;  how  strange  to  see  her  smile  with 
out  seeing  anything  of  her  face  but  her  pale-white  chin 
and  red  lips;  now  she  lowers  her  head  and  you  see  noth 
ing  but  a  smile  in  the  shadow;  it  is  as  if  not  a  head 
topped  her  shoulders  but  the  very  substance  and  essence 
of  a  smile,  crowned  by  a  hat.  A  man  approaches  her 
from  the  other  direction,  with  resounding  footfalls.  As 
he  is  about  to  pass  her,  she  looks  at  him,  still  smiling, 
and  sings  in  an  undertone.  The  song  must  be  for  him, 
for  he  stops  falteringly,  and  talks  to  her.  She  replies, 
still  smiling  neither  more  nor  less,  just  as  before.  He 
shakes  his  head,  says  "Good  night  \"  and  goes  on.  She 
pursues  her  own  way.  Who  is  she?  Where  is  she  go 
ing?  Why  does  she  walk  so  silently,  incessantly  smil 
ing?  Her  receding  figure  becomes  the  shadow  of  a 
shadow,  is  lost  in  the  darkness. 

A  small  boy  with  papers  under  his  arm  stands  within 
the  deep  door  of  a  shop,  and  having,  drowsily,  but  with 
great  interest,  watched  all  that  transpired,  leans  back 
once  more  against  the  jamb  of  the  door  and  closes  his 
eyes  in  sleep. 

He  does  not  sleep  long.  Two  large  hands  clutch  him 
by  the  shoulders  and  shake  him.  A  working-man's  tin 
food-receptacle  rattles  on  one  of  the  man's  wrists.  The 
boy  opens  his  eyes  with  a  start.  Ah,  it  is  his  mother. 
His  first  thought  is  that  he  must  get  up,  get  out  of  his 
soft,  warm  bed,  and  go  out  into  the  cold,  into  the  night, 
to  sell  papers.  What  a  funny  mistake!  He  hears  the 
man's  voice: 

"You  ain't  had  enough  sleep,  my  boy.  Young  'uns, 
the  like  of  you,  ought  to  be  a'bed.  I  am  a  full-sized 
man,  and  a  night-bird  from  way  back,  and  I  can't  say 
as  I  like  it.  Come,  give  me  the  Times,  boy,  I  must  be 
going." 

What  a  funny  mistake!     It  amuses  the  boy  to  think 


210  THE  MASK 

that  he  had  made  such  a  funny  mistake.  The  State 
House  clock  strikes.  He  counts  the  strokes: 

"One — two — three — four " 

It  is  four  o'clock  then.     And  now  he  remembers: 

An  hour  and  a  half  ago,  he,  a  thing  called  John, 
brought  into  this  world  for  some  reason  or  other,  was 
sound  asleep.  But  at  two-thirty  sharp,  something  at  his 
head  rattled,  with  rapid,  ringing  hammer-strokes.  It 
was  the  alarm  clock,  a  devilish  thing;  and  he  hated  it, 
and  bore  it  malice,  as  if  it  were  a  person.  But  he  knew 
he  could  not  do  without  it.  He  dared  not  disobey  its 
imperative  call.  He  would  never  forget  the  night  in 
which  he  had  said  to  himself,  as  he  turned  over  on  his 
other  side :  "I  will  sleep  but  five  minutes  more."  When 
he  awoke,  to  his  unforgettable  horror,  he  opened  his  eyes 
on  broad  daylight :  it  was  seven  o'clock !  He  remembered 
how  distressed,  how  disconsolate  he  was!  He  thought 
of  the  regular  customers  he  had  missed — what  would  they 
think  of  him?  With  what  shame  he  faced  his  mother 
• — and  even  Raya  and  Dunya.  Worse  than  that — he 
found  it  even  harder  to  face  himself.  He  had  lost  his 
world  that  day,  and  he  tortured  himself  with  his  failure. 
At  school  that  morning  he  was  reprimanded  for  inat 
tention. 

But  that  never  happened  again. 

Last  night  he  went  to  bed  at  night,  and  he  was  up  at 
two-thirty.  If  he  wanted  to  he  could  do  this  even  with 
out  the  alarm  clock.  For  his  step-father  had  taught  him 
that  by  concentrating  his  mind  at  bedtime  on  the  time  he 
wanted  to  get  up,  he  could  do  so.  He  tried  this,  and 
it  worked — what  a  nice  trick!  He  was  proud  of  his 
powers.  He  had  no  longer  to  be  waked  by  his  mother, 
as  was  the  case  during  the  first  few  weeks,  when  he 
changed  his  hours  of  occupation  from  the  afternoon  to 
the  early  hours  of  the  morning.  This  change  took  place 
at  the  end  of  June  when  the  school  closed  for  the  sum- 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  211 

mer  vacation.  But  when  the  school  opened  again  in 
September,  he  held  on  to  his  morning  hours  for  selling 
papers  and  gave  up  those  in  the  afternoon.  He  pre 
ferred  night  to  day,  because  there  were  less  people  about 
in  the  night,  and  fewer  boys  to  compete  with  him  and  to 
annoy  him.  Indeed,  he  had  begun  by  coming  out  at 
four  o'clock,  but  gradually  went  out  earlier  and  earlier. 
Three  o'clock  usually  found  him  sitting  on  the  window- 
sill  of  one  of  the  press-rooms,  waiting  for  the  presses 
to  begin  to  whirr  over  the  first  city  editions.  He  was  the 
first  boy  out  with  morning  papers. 

That  morning,  as  usual,  he  got  up  at  two-thirty, 
dressed  himself  by  candle-light,  and  stole  out  of  the 
house  quietly,  without  waking  anyone.  As  he  walked 
out  into  the  street  he  munched  a  sandwich  prepared  for 
him  by  his  mother.  He  was  still  sleepy,  but  the  cool  air 
refreshed  him.  He  walked  along  feverishly,  at  times 
with  closed  eyes,  bumping  once  or  twice  into  a  lamp 
post.  He  had  no  thoughts.  Behind  him  walked  Sleep, 
and  held  him  back  with  heavy  languid  hands;  in  front 
of  him  Someone  dragged  him  forward  with  active,  gaunt 
fingers.  At  last  he  was  no  longer  sleepy;  indeed  he  was 
intensely  awake,  and  his  whole  body  flared  as  with  ten 
thousand  little  flames. 

The  men  in  the  press-room  joked  good-naturedly  at 
his  expense  while  he  waited,  but  he  had  not  long  to  wait. 
He  seized  his  papers,  and  ran  out  into  the  street,  and 
went  on  running,  until  he  came  to  a  pair  of  swinging 
doors  of  a  beer  saloon.  Bending  down,  he  looked  un 
der  these,  and  found  the  place  full  of  people.  He  pushed 
the  small,  half-doors  aside,  and  bursting  in,  he  accosted 
a  group  of  men,  who  stood  leaning  against  the  bar,  on 
which  were  ranged  their  ''schooners"  of  beer.  The  men 
were  munching  sandwiches,  to  which  they  had  just 
helped  themselves  from  the  "free  lunch"  counter.  With 
out  a  word,  one  of  the  men  began  to  pull  out  John's 


212  THE  MASK 

papers  one  by  one  and  to  hand  them  to  his  companions; 
then  with  a  generous  gesture  he  turned  to  the  strangers 
in  the  room  and  said : 

"Who'll — er — er — 'ave  a  pay -per?  It's  on  m-me, 
boys!" 

The  words  oozed  out  of  his  mouth  as  thick  as  treacle. 

No  one  responding,  he  fumbled  with  a  drunken  hand 
in  his  pocket,  and  drew  out  a  nickel.  John,  pocketing 
it,  gave  the  man  a  cent  change,  and  was  about  to  go 
out,  when  the  bar-tender,  a  good-natured  German,  with 
large  projecting  moustaches  like  a  tom-cat's,  thrust  a 
fork  into  a  large  steaming  sauce-pan,  and  flourished  a 
sausage,  as  a  result  of  the  manoeuvre. 

"Here,  boy,"  he  called  out,  "have  a  dog  before  you 

go." 

"Bow-wow !    Bow-wow !"  went  up  a  chorus  of  voices. 

"I'm  not  hungry,"  said  John,  hesitating. 

"Not  hungry?"  said  the  bar-tender  in  an  offended 
tone,  "there's  always  room  for  a  dog'."  Then,  seeing 
that  the  boy  still  hesitated,  he  added :  "Don't  be  afraid, 
it's  kosher." 

Everyone  laughed.  The  man  who  had  bought  the 
papers  said  persuasively: 

"Son-ny,  that  er — dog  came  f-from  Sher-rus-salem. 
It's  er — a  circumcised  d-dog." 

Another  guffaw  followed. 

John,  embarrassed,  took  the  proffered  sausage,  which 
the  bar-tender  fortified  with  two  pieces  of  bread  and  a 
dab  of  mustard.  He  nibbled  at  the  bread  before  going 
out,  but  once  in  the  street,  after  carefully  glancing  round 
to  see  if  anyone  were  looking,  he  flung  the  sausage  \vith 
all  his  might  over  the  roof  of  a  small  one-story  shop, 
and  ran  on.  He  really  believed  that  these  "dogs"  were 
made  of  dog-meat. 

Then  he  came  to  another  pair  of  small  swinging  doors. 
He  pushed  these  aside  and  found  himself  in  a  very  long 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  213 

room  containing  large  curious-looking,  green-topped 
tables  all  in  a  row.  Men  in  shirt-sleeves,  cigars  in  their 
mouths,  were  standing  about  with  long  slender  poles  in 
their  hands  and  took  turns  at  driving,  at  the  point  of  the 
pole,  small  stone  balls,  the  size  of  a  peach,  into  little  nets 
provided  at  the  corners  of  the  table  and  at  the  sides. 
John  sold  a  number  of  papers  here,  then  paused,  fasci 
nated,  at  one  of  the  tables  and  watched  the  play  of  two 
players,  who  appeared  to  be  especially  expert.  Some 
times  he  would  come  back  much  later  and  find  the  same 
players  still  at  play;  they  played  until  the  day  traffic 
began  to  noise  in  the  street,  and  did  not  grow  weary. 

John  ran  on  again,  until  he  came  to  a  brilliantly  lit 
place,  a  "quick-lunch"  cafe.  This  was  one  of  those  places 
"open  day  and  night" ;  there  was  a  legend  that  with  each 
new  place  established  by  the  proprietor,  the  first  thing  he 
did  was  to  throw  away  the  key,  a  ceremony  duly  cele 
brated  with  a  seven-course  dinner  and  champagne — at 
a  high-class  restaurant,  of  course.  The  first  thing  that 
struck  John  as  he  entered  the  very  long  room,  with  its 
two  long  counters  and  the  small  tables  between,  was  the 
incessant  clatter  of  dishes,  which  came  from  the  back  of 
the  room,  and  this  terrific  noise  was  punctuated  by  the 
stalwart  if  sometimes  inarticulate  cries  of  the  waiters, 
cries  passed  down  the  line,  as  in  refrain,  until  they  reach 
ed  the  man  near  the  dumb  waiter,  who  acted  as  a  kind 
of  lightning-conductor,  passing  these  cries  under 
ground,  where  the  kitchen  was  busily  astir,  a  fantastic 
man-hive. 

"Two  spring-chickens,  sunny  side  up!" — That  meant 
two  eggs  fried  on  one  side. 

"Two  soft  on  the  brain,  baked  on  the  side!" — That 
meant  two  soft-boiled  eggs,  and  a  plate  of  beans. 

"Two  hogs,  and  a  bull !" — That  meant  two  ham  sand 
wiches,  and  one  beef. 


214  THE  MASK 

"Adam  and  Eve  on  a  raft!" — That  meant  two  poached 
eggs  on  toast. 

"One  cured  leather,  done  to  a  frazzle!" — That  meant 
a  steak  well  done. 

"Cornbeef  and  cab-bahje!" — The  waiter  pronounced 
cabbage  as  though  the  word  were  garage. 

A  narrow  strip  on  the  inside  of  the  counter,  and  form 
ing  part  of  it,  moved  steadily  in  one  direction,  and  bore 
toward  each  customer  the  dish  he  had  ordered,  which  he 
snatched  off  as  it  passed  him,  without  waiting  for  the 
waiter,  who  was  busily  engaged  in  pouring  out  coffee. 
The  men  sat  hunched  on  high  backless  round  seats, 
which  revolved  on  a  pivot;  they  sat  not  as  at  a  meal  but 
as  if  they  were  travelling  on  bicycles;  only  now  and  then, 
suiting  the  action  of  their  revolving  seats,  they  turned 
their  full  bodies  toward  their  neighbours  and  spoke  in 
loud  raucous  voices,  which  rose  above  the  clatter  of  the 
dishes  like  some  inverted  instrument  above  a  cacophony 
by  a  Futurist  composer.  And  all  the  while  dishes  clat 
tered,  and  clattered,  and  clattered. 

And  having  left  behind  the  din  of  the  place,  John  was 
once  more  in  the  cool  air,  running.  He  traversed  street 
after  street,  crossing  after  crossing,  and,  having  stopped 
again  to  listen  to  the  whirr  of  the  presses  as  he  bought 
copies  of  another  paper,  he  ran  on  once  more  as  if  he 
were  a  little  running  automaton — traversing  street  after 
street,  crossing  after  crossing.  He  turned  into  a  straight, 
narrow  street,  bordered  with  tall  buildings  and  rather 
dark,  until  he  came  to  a  building  rather  taller  and  darker 
than  the  rest,  for  its  walls  were  very  solid,  and  its  win 
dows  opaque,  and  its  tall,  ominous-looking  chimney 
belched  forth  thick  smoke,  obscuring  the  stars.  Running 
the  whole  length  of  it,  John  came  to  a  wide  gate,  which 
bore  the  sign :  "No  Admission."  Disregarding  this,  he 
pushed  aside  one  of  the  grimy  wooden  doors,  and  entered 
an  alley.  He  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  alley,  and, 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  215 

turning  into  a  small  cul-de-sac,  came  to  another  door, 
this  time  an  iron  one,  which  also  bore  the  sign :  "No 
Admission."  Again,  disregarding  this,  he  pushed  aside 
the  iron  door,  and  entered.  He  walked  quickly  across  the 
iron-grated  floor  of  the  dimly-lit  corridor,  and,  pushing 
aside  one  of  many  doors,  entered  the  main  floor  of  the 
Electric  Light  Works,  for  that  is  what  it  was.  The 
floor,  as  in  the  corridor,  was  iron-grated,  and  a  comfort 
able  warmth  came  up  from  below,  mingled  with  the  smell 
of  machine-oil.  The  place,  strangely  enough,  was  not 
brilliantly  lit ;  indeed  a  dozen  huge  dynamos  spun  around 
not  too  noisily  in  a  kind  of  half-twilight;  there  appeared 
to  be  no  one  about;  the  dynamos  spun  around  like  gigan 
tic  tops,  set  going  perhaps  by  God,  in  a  sportive  mood, 
by  means  of  a  hawser,  left  dangling  in  his  hand.  For 
some  moments  the  boy  stood  awed  and  fascinated,  as  he 
gazed  at  the  monsters,  revolving  so  fast  that  they  appear 
ed  almost  to  stand  still.  Then  he  cautiously  made  his 
way  between  the  two  rows  of  them,  across  the  floor 
which  he  feared  to  slip  upon,  and  found  himself  pres 
ently  before  a  door  of  what  seemed  from  the  outside  to 
be  a  small  compartment  built  in  within  the  large  room. 
"POSITIVELY  No  Admission"  was  the  sign  on  the 
door.  On  the  other  side  he  could  hear  voices.  Disre 
garding  the  sign  once  more,  he  pushed  the  door  open,  and 
found  himself  in  a  small  room.  Its  walls  were  almost 
completely  covered  with  switchboards,  brilliantly  lit  up, 
but  as  the  lines  of  light  were  shaded  on  the  outside,  the 
middle  of  the  room  was  quite  dim.  Here,  in  the  half- 
dark,  sat  the  dim  figures  of  workingmen,  their  legs  dan 
gling.  They  were  smoking  their  pipes  and  talking. 

"Hello,  Johnny,"  said  one  of  the  voices  good-natur 
edly,  "you're  late  this  morning." 

John,  handing  the  man  a  paper,  began  to  explain  how 
the  bar-tender  and  the  drunken  men  had  kept  him  back 
by  trying  to  induce  him  to  eat  a  sausage  made  of  the 


216  THE  MASK 

meat  of  a  circumcised  dog,  and  how  he  had  outwitted 
them  by  throwing  the  guilty  sausage  over  the  roof  of  a 
house. 

The  quintet  on  the  table  howled  with  delight. 

"I  say,  Johnny,"  said  one  of  them,  "won't  you  show 
us — you  know — " 

"What?"  asked  John  in  a  puzzled  voice. 

"You  know — "  prompted  the  man,  with  a  wink  at  his 
companions,  "you  know — your  circumcision — " 

"Yes,  do,  Johnny,"  said  another,  "I'll  give  you  a  nickel 
if  you  do," — and  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew 
out  the  coin,  tossing  it  into  the  air  and  catching  it. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  a  third  seeing  that 
John  hesitated,  and  misinterpreting  this  hesitation  as  due 
to  the  insufficiency  of  the  offer,  "we'll  make  a  collection 
for  you."  And,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he 
seized  John,  and  in  spite  of  the  latter's  struggles,  exposed 
him. 

One  of  the  men  turned  on  a  hanging  light,  and  undoing 
the  current  cord,  lowered  the  bulb,  in  order  to  "bring 
more  light  on  the  subject,"  as  he  remarked. 

Five  pair  of  eager  eyes  out  of  the  half -dark  were 
focussed  on  the  spot  where  the  light  fell.  The  men 
laughed,  nudged  each  other's  ribs,  and  passed  obscene 
jokes. 

The  man  who  held  the  light  brought  it  nearer  and 
neared  toward  John,  and  at  last  he  touched  him  with  the 
electric  bulb.  It  was  hot,  and  though  he  was  touched  but 
lightly,  he  cried  out  with  pain.  The  bulb  was  withdrawn 
quickly,  the  men  laughed.  They  let  him  go.  Five  hands 
went  into  pockets,  five  nickles  went  jingling  into  John's 
hat.  The  hat  had  been  snatched  off  the  boy's  head,  and 
now  it  was  returned  to  him,  with  five  nickels  jingling 
in  it.  As  John  made  no  movement  toward  his  hat,  the 
man  gathered  up  the  five  nickles  and  thrust  them  into 
John's  pocket,  and  pulled  the  hat  over  the  boy's  head. 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  217 

John,  without  uttering  a  word,  walked  out.  And  in 
deed  he  could  not  utter  a  word  if  he  wanted  to.  Some 
thing  came  over  him  in  a  flood,  something  molten  and 
burning,  and  sought  egress  at  the  throat ;  something  like 
a  valve  went  down  with  a  snap  in  his  throat  and  barred 
all  egress.  He  walked  through  the  large  room  quickly, 
across  the  iron-grated  floor,  not  afraid  of  slipping,  un 
mindful  of  the  huge  dynamos  which  spun  round  like 
gigantic  tops,  set  going  perhaps  by  God,  in  a  sportive 
mood,  by  means  of  a  hawser  left  dangling  in  His  hand. 

But  now  he  was  once  more  in  the  cool  air.  The  cool 
air  blew  on  him,  the  cool  air  refreshed  him,  the  cool  air 
cleansed  him  with  its  coolness.  He  said  something  to 
himself,  nonsense  and  inarticulate  words;  he  had  this 
habit  of  speaking  to  himself,  nonsense  and  inarticulate 
words.  He  was  like  a  little  dynamo,  silent  and  full  of 
power  and  helpless ;  like  a  little  top  set  going  by  the  hand 
si  God.  What  did  God  mean  by  it  ? 

The  heart  of  him  revolted,  grew  hard;  all  of  a  sudden 
he  began  to  run,  he  ceased  being  a  top,  he  became  a  little 
running  automaton. 

He  ran  and  he  ran,  traversing  street  after  street,  cross 
ing  after  crossing,  and  only  paused  when  he  came  to  the 
door  of  a  pie-bakery;  a  most  delicious  smell  came  up 
from  the  basement  and  filled  his  mouth  with  desire.  It 
was  on  the  ground  floor,  but  he  shook  the  latch,  and  in 
answer  a  man  came  to  the  door  and  said  :  "Oh,  it's  you !" 
He  went  off  for  a  moment,  then  returned,  and  pushed  a 
paper  bag  through  the  partly  opened  door  into  John's 
hand  while  John  thrust  a  paper  into  the  man's  hand. 

John  examined  the  contents  of  the  bag.  There  were 
four  cuts  of  pie  in  it,  of  four  varieties,  all  hot.  They 
were  apple  and  lemon  and  cranberry  and  pumpkin.  As 
he  walked  along  slowly  he  started  on  the  pumpkin.  There 
was  nothing  so  good  in  the  world,  he  thought,  as  eating 
hot  pies. 


218  THE  MASK 

He  ate  two,  and  thought  he  would  take  the  others 
home,  but  the  remaining  pies  taunted  him,  and  he  was  not 
long  in  consuming  a  third.  He  resisted  the  temptation  of 
the  fourth  and  put  it  behind  a  shop-shutter  when  he  got 
to  his  corner.  It  was  here  that  John  had  watched  the 
man  in  the  silk  hat  and  the  woman  with  the  smile 
and  the  man  who  addressed  her  and  went  on.  It  was  here 
within  the  deep  door  of  a  shop  that  he  leant  against  the 
jamb  of  the  door  and  slept,  until  awakened  by  the  work- 
ingman  who  wanted  a  paper. 

Having  realised  the  "funny  mistake"  he  had  made  in 
thinking  himself  in  bed, — and  wishing  that  he  was, — he 
went  toward  the  gutter;  here  by  the  curb  clean  water 
flowed,  for  the  street  had  just  been  flushed;  he  dipped  his 
hands  and  put  them  over  his  eye-lids.  The  coolness 
revived  him,  his  whole  body  flared  as  with  ten  thousand 
little  flames. 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  paused,  as  he  recalled  every 
thing — his  humiliation  of  an  hour  ago.  It  was  as  if  the 
ten  thousand  little  hectic  flames  had  rushed  together  and 
shot  up  in  a  single  flash  toward  his  brain,  and  having 
evoked  in  his  brain  a  picture  of  that  little  room  and  the 
five  pair  of  eyes  gazing  at  him  out  of  the  half-dark — 
and  his  shame  also — the  flash  spent  itself,  and  falling 
backward,  scattered  into  ten  times  ten  thousand  little 
sparks,  which  spread  through  all  the  red  highways  of  his 
body  and  stung  him  from  head  to  foot  with  their  annoy 
ing  little  stings,  as  of  a  swarm  of  ants. 

What  did  God  mean  by  it  ?  What  had  he,  a  little  boy, 
done  to  be  punished  so?  But  perhaps  his  uncle  Sroolik 
was  right,  and  there  was  no  God  in  America. 

Rapt  in  this  theological  problem,  he  suddenly  realised 
that  a  waggon  filled  with  baskets  of  peaches  was  passing 
him  by,  on  its  way  toward  the  river.  Forgetting  his  sor 
rows  and  God,  he  became  transformed  once  more  into  a 
little  running  automaton,  and  having  caught  up  with  the 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  219 

driver,  who  was  perched  on  a  high  seat,  he  hailed  him. 
The  driver  drew  in  the  reins,  the  waggon  stopped. 
"I'll  give  you  a  paper  for  a  peach !"  cried  John  to  him. 
"Let's  have  your  hat,"  said  the  man. 
John  climbed  on  to  the  spoke  of  a  wheel,  and  handed 
the  man  his  hat.    It  was  returned  to  John  full  of  peaches. 
He  passed  a  paper  up  to  the  man. 

John  returned  to  his  corner  and  bit  his  teeth  into  a 
peach.  There  was  nothing  so  good  in  the  world,  he 

tthought,  as  eating  a  juicy  peach. 

Of  the  half  dozen  peaches  he  ate  three,  and  he  thought 

!he  would  take  the  others  home,  but  the  remaining  peaches 
taunted  him,  and  he  was  not  long  in  consuming  a  fourth. 

'He  resisted  the  temptation  of  the  remaining  two,  and  put 

ithem  behind  the  shop-shutter  to  keep  company  with  the 

lonely  pie. 

Once  more  John  scampered  off,  this  time  to  a  third 

i  newspaper  office,  just  around  the  corner,   and  bought 

imore  papers. 

By  this  time,  the  sky  had  lightened  perceptibly,  the 
great  stretching  hand  of  Dawn  advanced  with  outspread 
fingers  to  pluck  the  stars  like  fruit  from  a  tree  and  to 
gather  them  up  in  her  dazzlingly  white  apron.  Then  she 
touched  lightly  the  foreheads  of  many  sleepers,  who 
awoke  and  put  on  their  drab  working  garments ;  the  older 
men  dressed  nonchalantly,  the  young  men  left  the  bed  of 
their  love  with  a  sigh,  the  bachelor  awoke  and  thought : 
"if  only — "  but  never  mind  what  he  thought :  it  wouldn't 
mend  matters  any,  if  you  knew.  The  older  man  and  the 
young  married  man  and  the  bachelor  were  soon  in  the 
street,  on  their  way  to  their  work.  Now  and  then  a  young 
girl  appeared  in  the  street, — a  telephone  girl,  a  nurse,  or 
a  waitress:  awakened  by  dawn,  a  mother,  or  an  alarm 
clock.  The  telephone  girl  thought:  "I  must  speak  to 
many."  The  nurse  thought :  "I  must  attend  to  many." 
The  waitress  thought :  "I  must  wait  upon  many."  And 


220  THE  MASK 

each  one  of  them  thought:  "if  only — "  But  never  mind 
what  they  thought :  it  wouldn't  mend  matters  any,  if  you 
knew.  Was  it  thoughts  or  people  which  began  to  fill  the 
streets?  The  street  lights,  more  and  more  pale,  blinked 
drowsily  upon  passing  shadows — shadows,  or  people — 
or  thoughts  now  and  then  one  stopped  to  buy  a  paper 
from  John. 

The  day  became  lighter  and  lighter.  Other  newsboys 
began  to  appear  in  the  streets.  Waggon  wheels  rattled 
over  cobble,  horses'  hoofs  resounded,  the  trams  clanked. 
The  voices  of  the  city  rose  more  and  more  clamorously, 
but  it  was  not  yet  full  day. 

A  rather  large  messenger-boy  of  about  sixteen  stopped 
to  speak  to  John.  He  appeared  to  be  in  a  very  gay  mood, 
and  winked  continuously,  rather  naughtily. 

"Guess  where  I've  been  to?"  he  asked  John. 

"Where?    How  can  I  tell ?" 

"Well,  you'll  never  guess!"  He  winked  an  eye,  and 
nudged  John's  ribs  with  his  elbow. 

"If  I  can't  guess,  then  tell  me." 

"Well,  that's  how  it  was,"  began  the  boy,  "about 
twelve-thirty  a  lady  blew  into  the  office,  a  regular  peach, 
let  me  tell  you,  her  eyes  like  electric  lights,  and  her 
clothes  all  fluffs  and  ruffles;  she  had  on  an  opera  cloak 
too,  or  an  uproar  cloak,  as  you  and  I  would  say, — she 
blew  in,  and  says  to  the  manager :  T  want  a  boy,  and  I 
want  him  quick,  important  business!  And  I  want  him 
for  some  time !' '  For  some  reason  the  messenger  boy 
thought  it  necessary  to  wink  an  eye  again  and  to  nudge 
John's  ribs.  "As  I  was  saying,  she  was  a  regular  peach. 
The  manager,  he  brushed  back  his  hair,  and  made  goo- 
goo  eyes.  'All  right/  he  says,  'you  can  have  a  boy.  Our 
charges  are  fifty  cents  an  hour.  Here,  Tim/  he  called. 
Little  Tim  ain't  larger  than  you.  The  peach  looks  him 
over  and  says  soft-like :  'Can't  I  have  any  boy  I  like  ?' 
The  manager  falls  all  over  himself.  'Madam/  he  says, 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  221 

you  can  have  any  boy  you  like/  Then  she  looked  down 
Ihe  long  bench,  and  choosed  me.  And  so  I  goes  along 
with  her.  She  taked  me  to  her  swell  apartments,  and  put 
oefore  me  a  swell  feed ;  they  were  some  eats,  let  me  tell 
rou!  Oysters  on  shell,  cold  chicken  and  ham  and  potato 
ialad,  and  apple  pie.  And  she  opens  up  a  little  bottle  of 
something  which  sizzed,  and  says  to  me:  'A  little  can't 
aurt  you.'  And  all  the  time  she  stands  over  my  chair  and 
oats  my  head,  gentle-like.  Then  when  I  gets  done  with 
the  feed,  she  looks  at  me  a  long  time,  and  says  to  me: 
'My  boy,  do  you  know  why  I  sent  for  you?'  I  says 
lothing.  'You  see,'  she  says,  'I  am  a  little  lonely  since 
my  husband  died,  and  I'm  afraid  of  the  dark,  it's  a  hard 
;hing  for  a  woman  to  be  all  alone  in  the  dark,  without 
it  man.  D'you  mind  cheering  me  up  a  little?'  And  all 
>f  a  sudden  she  begins  to  cry,  and  her  hair  gets  all  loose. 
Then  she  flings  her  arms  around  me  and  kisses  me.  And 
[  do  all  she  says.  She  keeps  on  kissing  and  kissing  me 
ill  night  in  the  dark,  and  won't  let  up.  Then  I  looks  at 
my  watch.  'It's  half  past  five,  missus,  my  time  is  up/ 
She  lights  her  light,  and  looks  into  her  money  bag.  'How 
much  do  I  owe  you,  darling?'  she  says.  T've  been  here 
nve  hours,  missus,  and  company  rates  are  fifty  cents  an 
hour.'  'All  right,'  she  says,  'and  here  is  a  dollar  for 
yourself.  Good  night,  darling,  and  don't  tell  anyone 
where  you've  been.'  '  The  messenger  pulled  out  the 
green  note  to  show  to  John,  at  the  same  time  winking  an 
eye  and  nudging  John's  ribs  again.  "Well,  I  must  be 
going,"  and  he  went  off  whistling  a  tune,  giving  one 
more  wink  over  his  shoulder  as  he  left. 

While  the  boy  was  telling  his  story,  John  was  laughing, 
as  he  was  expected  to  do;  but  once  the  boy  left,  he  felt 
very  sad  and  troubled,  and  a  confused  unrest  possessed 
him,  he  did  not  know  why.  His  own  episode  at  the 
electric  light  works  came  back  to  him  with  all  its  shame 
and  humiliation,  as  also  an  episode  of  the  day  before,- 


222  THE  MASK 

when  in  the  early  hours  a  man,  dressed  well,  but  pale 
and  slightly  tipsy,  begged  of  him  a  nickel  for  a  cup  of 
coffee,  pleading  that  he  had  left  his  entire  "roll"  in  "a 
lady's  stocking." 

What  did  this  all  mean?  Surely  the  world  was  evil. 
And  he  was  evil  also.  For  he  thought  of  these  things, 
and  they  gave  him  a  secret  pleasure.  He  was  the  mes 
senger  boy,  and  he  was  the  woman  whom  the  messenger 
boy  comforted ;  he  was  one  of  the  five  pairs  of  eyes  which 
looked  at  him  gleefully  out  of  the  half -dark,  humiliat 
ing  him.  He  was  the  inflicter,  and  he  was  the  sufferer. 
But  it  was  not  till  many  years  afterward  that  this  became 
clear  to  him.  For  at  that  time  he  was  inarticulate,  and 
like  Moses'  bush  something  in  him  burned  with  fire,  and 
was  not  consumed.  There  was  this  flame  in  him,  and  it 
had  no  egress.  This  fire  wished  to  speak,  it  wished  to 
burn  through  the  crust  of  his  petty  life.  But  other  fires 
came,  fires  of  pity,  which  overwhelmed  this  other  fire, 
but  did  not  put  it  out.  For  you  cannot  fight  fire  with 
fire.  He  was  in  misery,  in  despair,  and  he  was  inar 
ticulate. 

The  voices  of  the  city  rose  more  and  more  clamor 
ously,  and  his  cry  went  to  join  the  others. 

"Pay-pers !     Paypers !     Pay-pers !" 

He  cried  his  cry  with  great  vigor,  and  all  his  inarticu 
late  fire  went  into  this  cry.  His  body  ceased  to  exist,  he 
had  become  a  cry.  In  response  to  it,  men  stopped  to  buy 
papers,  but  it  was  not  that  that  the  cry  was  for.  Men 
marked  the  word,  but  not  the  intonation,  nor  its  despair. 
A  wood  goblin  might  have  understood  it,  never  the  iron 
sprite  of  the  city. 

The  street  lights  had  gone  out  long  ago.  The  sun  rose 
higher  on  the  great  man-hive,  its  rays  drew  men  out  of 
their  square  cells. 

John  ran  round  the  corner  to  see  the  clock:  it  was 
seven-thirty.  It  was  time  to  go  home,  run  his  eyes  over 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  223 

his  lessons,  and  go  to  school.  He  folded  the  four  papers 
he  had  left,  picked  up  the  bag  containing  the  cut  of  pie 
and  the  bag  containing  the  two  peaches,  and  once  more 
became  a  little  running  automaton. 

He  ran  and  he  ran,  traversing  street  after  street,  cross 
ing  after  crossing,  easing  his  pace  only  at  intervals — 
for  his  way  was  long, — until  he  reached  his  house.  He 
burst  into  the  kitchen  and  found  everyone  at  breakfast. 
He  flung  down  the  papers  on  a  chair,  and  emptied  the 
two  bags  on  the  table.  With  great  joy  he  watched  Raya 
and  Dunya  scramble  for  the  pie  and  the  two  peaches. 
He  held  his  sides  with  laughter.  He  took  out  a  large 
handful  of  coins  and  handed  them  to  his  mother,  who 
counted  them  and  said : 

"You've  had  a  good  day,  John." 

John  flushed,  but  said  nothing.  Shame  again  came  to 
him  in  a  torrent  of  fire.  He  snatched  quickly  at  a  piece 
of  buttered  bread,  an  egg  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  having 
done  with  his  breakfast,  he  seized  his  books,  and  began 
leafing  one  of  them  very  quickly.  He  began  to  recite  in 
a  sing-song  voice  a  verse  of  Longfellow's  he  had  to  know 
upon  that  day : 

Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest, 
And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal, 

Etc.,  etc. 
Then: 

Lives  of  great  men  oft  remind  us, 
We  can  make  our  life  sublime, 

Etc.,  etc. 

John  suddenly  thought  that  he  heard  some  one  laugh  at 
him  behind  his  back;  he  turned  round  in  anger  only  to 
find  that  he  was  mistaken;  there  was  no  one  quite  near 
him,  and  every  one  had  a  straight  face.  He  went  on  re 
peating  the  line : 

Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest  .... 


224  THE  MASK 

Then  he  snatched  up  another  book,  this  time  a  history, 
and  went  on  repeating  in  the  same  sing-song  voice,  as 
though  he  were  still  reciting  Longfellow,  something  or 
other  about  Bunker  Hill.  Then  he  snatched  up  still 
another  book,  and,  without  changing  his  voice,  went  on 
repeating  something  about  the  Malay  Archipelago,  and 
the  Suez  Canal.  Then  he  snatched  up  still  another  book, 
and,  without  changing  his  voice,  went  on  repeating 
something  about  the  alimentary  canal.  And  Dunya, 
overhearing  him,  teased  him  by  asking  how  far  it  was 
from  the  Suez  Canal  to  the  alimentary.  John  was  about 
to  get  angry,  but  he  reconsidered  as  he  thought  of  a 
retort : 

"There  is  no  distance  at  all,  if  you  happen  to  be  on 
the  spot." 

Then  he  slammed  his  books  and  tied  them  up  in  a 
strap.  He  ceased  being  a  reciting  automaton,  he  became 
a  little  running  automaton  on  its  way  to  school. 

He  entered  his  class  and  took  his  seat  at  the  head. 
He  was  Number  One  boy,  in  the  Ninth  Grade,  having 
"skipped,"  as  soon  as  he  had  mastered  a  little  English, 
from  the  Second  to  the  Fourth,  and  from  the  Fourth  to 
the  Ninth,  chiefly  on  account  of  his  mathematics.  He 
detested  almost  everything  else,  especially  grammar  and 
physiology :  the  first  because  it  reminded  him  of  his 
earlier  ordeal  with  German,  the  second  because  it  re 
minded  him  of  his  mother's  insistence  on  his  becoming  a 
physician.  He  did  not  yet  know  what  he  wanted  to 
become.  In  fact,  he  quite  definitely  did  not  want  to 
become  anything.  For  he  was  afraid  of  the  world,  and 
afraid  of  people,  nothing  frightened  him  more  than  the 
thought  of  meeting  new  people.  Nevertheless  he  had  a 
great  pride,  and  he  studied  his  lessons  with  great  dili 
gence  less  for  the  sake  of  knowledge  than  for  the  sake  of 
being  at  the  head  of  his  class.  The  one  joy  he  had  wass 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  225 

reading  in  after-school  hours.  Every  two  or  three  days 
he  went  to  get  a  new  book  at  the  Free  Library.  He 
devoured  the  Arabian  Nights,  the  many-coloured  fairy 
books  by  Andrew  Lang,  and  stories  of  adventure  by 
Verne  and  Dumas  and  Henty,  and  even  the  lurid  "Rag 
ged  Tom"  stories  by  Horatio  Alger,  the  American  boy's 
friend.  He  liked  stories  in  which  there  was  a  hero  and  a 
heroine — a  heroine  especially,  whom  he  liked  to  conjure 
up  as  an  ethereal  being  of  transcendent  perfection.  And 
though  in  actual  life  he  felt  intensely  shy  before  women, 
these  imaginary  creatures  were  very  real  to  him,  and 
they  gave  him  distress  and  delight,  evoking  in  his  too 
young  mind  both  sensual  and  idealistic  images.  As 
before,  there  was  no  one  to  tell  him  anything.  He  read 
what  he  liked.  It  is  true  his  mother  mentioned  Dickens 
and  Samuel  Smiles:  he  took  up  "Nicholas  Nickleby" 
and  some  of  the  "Self-Help"  books  out  of  sense  of 
duty,  and  was  consequently  bored  intolerably ;  he  tried  to 
convince  himself  that  he  was  learning  something  and 
enjoying  himself,  though  he  invariably  dropped  them 
before  he  got  to  the  middle.  He  no  longer  read  Russian 
tales,  for  he  was  urged  to  drop  everything  Russian,  if 
he  was  to  become  a  good  American.  Nevertheless,  every 
other  day  his  stepfather  taught  him  Hebrew  and  read  the 
Bible  with  him;  he  got  a  strange  pleasure  out  of  the 
sound  of  the  old  words. 

That  morning,  as  always,  the  school-mistress,  a  short, 
podgy  woman  with  spectacles,  began  the  day  by  reading 
a  few  verses  from  the  Bible.  Owing  to  a  protest  on  the 
part  of  the  parents  of  the  Jewish  pupils,  she  invariably 
read  something  from  the  Old  Testament.  That  morning 
she  read  a  psalm.  The  words  uttered  in  a  dull  and  mean 
ingless  voice  sornded  dull  and  meaningless,  and  Vanya, 
worn  out  with  lack  of  ^1eep  and  his  night's  activity,  was 
asleep  before  she  was  done,  his  head  propped  on  his 


226  THE  MASK 

elbows.  She  put  away  the  Bible  and  picked  up  the  recita 
tion  book. 

"Number  One  boy,  please  stand  up !"  she  called  out. 

John  slept. 

"John  Gombarov!"  she  called  out. 

John  did  not  stir.     The  class  tittered. 

The  school-mistress  walked  up  to  John  and  shook 
him.  He  opened  his  eyes  in  surprise. 

"I  have  a  good  mind  to  send  you  to  the  principal," 
said  the  school-mistress.  "It's  the  second  time  it  has 
happened  this  week.  Now  I  want  you  to  recite  Long 
fellow's  'Psalm  of  Life'  which  I  gave  you  for  your  lesson 
yesterday." 

John  rose  and  began : 

"Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest  .  .  .  ' 
He  paused  and  repeated  in  a  faltering  voice : 
"Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest  .  .  .  ' 

"Evidently  you  have  some  doubts  about  it,"  said  the 
school-mistress;  "sit  down  Gombarov.  Next  boy!" 

He  sat  down  crestfallen.  But  he  retrieved  himself 
later  when  the  school-mistress  asked  the  class  to  write  a 
composition  on  the  Cat. 

"How  many  claws  has  a  cat?"  was  the  hushed  whisper 
which  went  through  the  whole  class.  And  John  asked 
the  same  question  of  the  boy  who  sat  next  to  him. 
Though  he  had  been  many  times  scratched  by  a  cat  he 
never  stopped  to  count  the  claws  tl.at  scratched  him. 
His  guess  was  the  right  one.  Lut  it  was  not  that  which 
won  him  the  commendation  of  the  school-mistress,  who 
even  showed  his  essay  to  the  principal  and  to  her  col- 


MYSTERIES  IN  THE  NIGHT  227 

leagues.  It  was  the  last  sentence,  which  John  had  put 
in  to  fill  out  the  too  meagre  composition.  It  was  to  the 
effect  that  the  Egyptians  regarded  the  cat  as  a  sacred 
animal  and  made  sacrifices  to  it  as  to  gods.  John  was 
astonished  that  this  bit  of  erudition  should  create  a  sensa 
tion,  and  he  was  shrewd  enough  not  to  give  away  the 
source  of  his  information,  a  book  of  Egyptian  adventure 
by  Henty. 

Then  he  fell  into  disgrace  again.  The  boy  who  sat 
next  to  him  was  to  blame.  This  boy  had  the  not  uncom 
mon  faculty  among  boys  of  investing  innocent  words 
with  obscene  meanings,  through  association.  It  hap 
pened  that  the  school-mistress,  in  discussing  some  quite 
innocent  subject  before  the  class,  happened  to  say  some 
quite  innocent  word,  which  however  brought  to  the  boy's 
mind  an  image  associated  with  female  anatomy.  He 
grinned  and  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  to  keep  from 
laughing,  and  at  the  same  instant  nudged  John  with  his 
elbow.  John  understood  what  was  in  the  other  boy's 
mind,  and  he  too  could  not  repress  a  giggle.  The  school 
mistress's  eyes  blazed  anger  at  the  boys,  and  putting 
down  the  book  she  held  in  her  hand,  she  went  over  and 
shook  John  by  the  shoulders  as  though  he  were  a  bag 
of  wheat. 

"I  want  you  to  know,  boys/'  she  said,  facing  her  class, 
"that  I'm  no  cinch." 

The  two  guilty  boys  left  the  school  together  when  the 
bell  rang.  They  were  walking  together  behind  a  tall 
school  girl  in  short  skirts.  A  long  plait  of  black  hair 
hung  down  her  back.  Her  legs  were  long  and  sturdy, 
attired  in  black  stockings.  The  two  boys  behind  kept 
pace  with  her.  John's  companion  kept  up  a  steady  grin. 
At  last  he  turned  to  John  and  asked : 

"She's  a  nice — " — He  repeated  the  innocent  word  used 
by  the  school-mistress  that  morning. 

"What?"  asked  John. 


22g  THE  MASK 

"She's  got  fine  legs." 

John  said  nothing. 

Such  was  the  atmosphere  in  which  John  grew,  such 
were  his  days  and  nights.  Life  seemed  dull  and  point 
less. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DEEPER  AND  DEEPER — MYSTERIES   AND   MORE   MYSTERIES 

"To  live  in  an  inferno  day  after  day  is  to  get  used  to 
it.  To  greet  morning  with  a  sigh,  and  night  with  a  curse, 
is  to  lapse  into  a  habit,  which  would  be  painless  but  for 
new,  rare  and  more  terrible  diversions.  To  walk  in  the 
fetid  darkness  for  ever  and  ever,  without  a  gleam  of 
light,  is  to  merge  with  it,  become  lost  in  it,  steeped  in 
it;  a  dark  fetid  thing  in  the  fetid  darkness.  Habit  walks 
at  your  side,  holding  your  hand,  habit — which  is  a  demon 
of  the  fetid,  sordid  darkness;  the  darkness  that  is  both 
of  day  and  night,  continuous,  everlasting.  Men  become 
like  insects  in  the  mire,  feeding  on  darkness  and  are  the 
food  of  darkness.  Fortunate  the  rare  few  for  whom  the 
dark  way  in  which  they  wander  is  illuminated  at  inter 
vals  by  flashes  of  lightning,  even  though  these  illumina 
tions  reveal  horrors  exceeding  the  darkness  itself. 
Certain  things  happen — rare  and  terrible  diversions,  and 
it  is  these  that  break  the  routine  of  your  inferno,  make 
your  inferno  interesting,  make  you  conscious  that  you 
are  in  an  inferno.  And  these  things  either  kill  or  save." 

In  such  a  manner  did  John  Gombarov  dwell  many 
years  afterward  on  his  childhood  days  in  Philadelphia, 
on  those  terrible  days  and  nights,  which  were  like  one 
long  darkness,  save  for  those  sudden,  those  bewildering 
flashes,  which  came  and  went;  they  were  the  sharp, 
forked  lightnings,  and  they  clove  the  darkness,  and  re 
vealed  for  but  an  instant  an  inferno  terrible  to  behold, 
fantastic  and  unimaginable;  then  the  darkness  closed  in 

229 


230     ^  THE  MASK 

upon  him,  and  he  wandered  on  in  the  darkness,  shaken  by 
the  flash,  the  memory  of  the  flash  haunting  him  for  days 
and  days. 

Sitting  many  years  afterward  with  his  friend  Douglass 
in  an  A. B.C.  shop  in  London,  Gombarov  poured  out  a 
tale  of  one  of  these  rare  and  terrible  diversions  in  his 
life,  and  strange  it  seemed  to  the  sun-loving  Englishman 
to  hear  his  friend  thrice-bless  so  sombre  a  diversion,  and 
only  later,  as  he  sat  musing  in  his  own  room  in  silence, 
did  it  dawn  upon  him  how  narrowly  Gombarov's  life 
was  saved  from  being  merely  sordid  by  tragic  illumina 
tions.  This  is  the  tale  that  Gombarov  told : 

"You  will  remember,"  he  began,  "the  boy,  living  in 
our  house,  who  first  introduced  me  to  selling  papers. 
He  lived  with  his  parents  on  the  floor  above  us.  There 
were  three  other  children  in  the  family  all  younger  than 
the  boy.  They  had  come  some  years  before  from  Russia, 
driven  by  the  pogroms.  At  home  Zorakh  was  a  first-class 
men's  tailor,  who  could  make  a  complete  garment  and 
took  pride  in, making  it  well.  There,  in  the  small  Rus 
sian  town,  he  worked  slowly  and  deliberately.  So  it  was 
quite  natural  that  his  efforts  to  establish  himself  as  an 
independent  tailor  in  Philadelphia  should  prove  a  failure. 
He  soon  found  out  that  only  speed  and  quantity  counted 
here,  and,  giving  up  his  shop,  he  began  to  look  for  work. 
Everywhere  he  heard  the  same  story.  They  did  not  em 
ploy  tailors :  they  employed  only  cutters  and  basters  and 
sewers  and  button-sewers  and  button-hole  makers  and 
pressers;  a  man  who  could  make  a  whole  garment  was 
not  wanted,  because  it  was  against  the  idea  of  speed;  a 
man  who  could  make  a  whole  garment  was  likely  to  get 
too  much  interested  in  his  work,  like  an  artist.  At  last, 
swallowing  his  pride,  he  began  to  look  for  a  job  as  a 
cutter,  thinking  it  would  be  the  least  obnoxious  part  in 
the  making  of  a  machine-made  garment.  But  he  failed 
to  reckon  on  the  law  of  demand  and  supply :  there  was  in 


DEEPER  AND  DEEPER  231 

fact  a  plethora  of  cutters,  but  there  was  a  shortage  of 
button-hole  makers.  And  so,  swallowing  his  pride  a 
second  time,  Zorakh  became  a  button-hole  maker.  All 
day  he  sat  making  button-holes.  Efficiency  being  a  pas 
sion  with  him,  he  took  great  pains  with  these  button 
holes,  but  as  he  was  paid  so  much  for  so  many  button 
holes — the  price  depending  upon  the  quality  of  the  cloth 
— he  soon  found  out  that  unless  he  hustled  he  would  not 
be  able  to  supply  his  own  wants,  not  to  speak  of  the 
wants  of  his  family.  He  soon  knew  the  meaning  of  the 
word  sweat-shop !  His  only  joy  was  when  he  had  a 
better  class  garment  to  do  and  the  button-holes  required 
greater  care  in  doing. 

"Zorakh,  being  a  sensitive,  nervous  man,  began  to  see 
button-holes  everywhere;  they  floated  before  his  eyes  in 
black  outlines,  but  at  night  they  looked  at  him  out  of 
the  darkness  like  green  luminous  malignant  eyes,  which 
followed  him  in  spite  of  every  movement  of  his  head  to 
escape  them.  But  sitting  all  day  in  the  fetid  air  of  the 
shop,  bent  over  into  a  half-arch,  even  a  worse  fate  over 
took  him :  he  began  to  spit  blood.  A  doctor  advised 
open-air  employment.  And  so  Zorakh  became  a  huck 
ster  of  vegetables  and  fruits.  Bravely,  day  after  day, 
he  pushed  his  laden  cart  through  the  streets,  and  shouted 
his  wares.  He  had  been  at  this  job  hardly  more  than  a 
week  when  one  of  those  periodical  raids  on  hucksters 
was  made  by  "plain-clothes  men."  Sometimes  the  pros 
titutes  were  raided  and  were  led  through  the  streets  half- 
naked,  shivering  in  the  night;  sometimes  the  poor  huck 
sters  were  rounded  up  and  driven  toward  the  police  sta 
tion,  pushing  their  own  carts  under  a  sweltering  sun.  It 
was  pitiful  to  see  a  huge  inhuman  paw  on  the  collar  of 
each,  as  if  they  could  escape!  and  it  was  pitiful  to  hear 
the  jeers  of  the  street  boys  and  now  and  then  even  of 
older  men.  It  was  both  pitiful  and  grotesque.  And  only 
the  Jewish  men  and  women  stood  on  the  pavements  and 


332  THE  MASK 

in  the  doorways  wildly  gesticulating,  indignantly  chat 
tering,  crying  their  'Woe  to  Columbus!'  How  helpless 
they  were !  Their  discomfiture  gave  the  hoodlums  great 
joy,  it  was  such  fun  to  see  the  Jews  in  such  a  fuss! 

"The  commotion  in  the  street  brought  us  all  to  the 
window.  We  saw  what  was  happening,  and  we  nearly 
cried  to  see  poor  Zorakh  in  that  moving  confusion;  he 
pushed  his  cart  with  great  effort,  urged  on  by  a  big,  burly 
six-foot-four  Irishman,  who  held  up  his  free  fist  at  one 
moment  in  the  air  as  though  he  meant  to. strike,  at  the 
same  time  giving  a  wink  at  the  passers-by  on  the  side 
walk.  I  remember  that  my  blood  boiled  in  me.  I  didn't 
know  why  these  men  were  rounded  up — perhaps  they 
had  no  huckster's  license — but  whatever  the  reason  I  felt 
it  was  unjust — these  men  were  trying  to  make  an  honest 
living.  The  sense  of  justice  was  even  then  most  curious 
ly  developed  in  me,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  in  my  indig 
nation  I  could  almost  have  thrown  a  stone  or  a  rotten  egg 
at  Zorakh's  tormentor  at  that  moment,  regardless  of  con 
sequences.  I  remember  I  looked  up  at  my  stepfather. 
His  face  was  pale,  his  features  drawn,  and  his  fists  were 
clenched.  My  mother  held  his  arm,  as  though  she  feared 
he  would  do  something  rash.  She  must  have  thought  of 
that  night  in  Russia,  when  in  his  fury  he  pulled  up  a 
young  birch  sapling  from  the  ground  and  belaboured 
with  it  some  unwelcome  visitors,  who  ran  from  the  de 
mon-like  man  in  sheer  terror  of  their  lives.  He  did  not 
speak  until  the  little  procession  had  passed.  Then  he 
said :  'One  can  understand  why  Moses  killed  the  Egypt 


ian/ 


"Zorakh  was  taken  with  the  others  before  a  magis 
trate,  and,  unable  to  pay  his  fine,  his  cart  with  its  contents 
was  confiscated,  and  he  got  seven  days  besides  to  make  up 
the  measure.  Poor  Zorakh  served  his  seven  days,  then 
went  home  and  to  bed.  He  was  very  ill,  beyond  hope  of 
saving.  He  lingered  on  for  some  weeks,  and  between 


DEEPER  AND  DEEPER  233 

the  earnings  of  the  boy  and  small  charities  his  family 
managed  to  go  on  living. 

"I  remember  knocking  on  the  door  one  afternoon, 
hoping  to  find  the  boy  in.  Serele,  a  little  girl,  opened  the 
door  to  me.  She  had  a  frightened  look  on  her  face.  She 
said  in  half-stammers :  'Father  is  looking  so  queer,  and 
there  is  no  one  at  home.  I  only  wish  mother  would  come 
in.'  With  a  fluttering  heart  I  went  into  Zorakh's  room. 
He  was  lying  on  the  bed  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  and 
his  body  rose  and  fell  with  his  heavy  breathing.  On 
seeing  me  he  tried  to  speak,  and  though  his  lips  moved 
the  words  would  not  come  for  some  time.  One  of  his 
hands  appeared  to  seek,  to  grope,  for  something.  I  then 
understood,  he  wanted  a  hand.  I  put  my  warm  hand  on 
his  cold  one,  and  that  appeared  to  revive  him  for  a 
moment.  A  smile  struggled  to  his  eyes,  and  words  to  his 
lips.  'I  w-wish — I  w-wish  you — a  hap-py — '  He  did 
not  finish  his  words.  Something  suddenly  seemed  to  lift 
him  from  his  bed,  shake  him  violently,  and  drop  him 
back  on  his  pillow.  Seeing  him  very,  very  still,  and  as 
it  were  smiling  just  a  little,  I  became  frightened,  and 
ran  out  of  the  room,  with  Serele  at  my  heels.  Zorakh 
was  dead. 

"Yet  it  was  not  Zorakh's  death  that  was  the  terrible 
diversion  I  spoke  of  in  the  beginning,  but  what  happened 
afterward,  on  the  day  of  his  burial. 

"Imagine  then  to  yourself  the  same  sordid  room;  a 
pine  box  containing  Zorakh,  supported  on  two  chairs,  is 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  sun  penetrates  the  drawn 
green  blinds  and  falls  in  a  ghastly  green  glare  on  Zor 
akh's  pale  face,  softened  somewhat  by  the  gentle  but 
flickering  light  of  the  candles  at  the  four  corners.  Three 
old  women,  their  figures  bent,  their  heads  wrapped  in 
pale  bandanna  shawls,  their  faces  unseen,  sit  at  the  head 
of  the  coffin  like  three  lamenting  fates,  and  they  drone 
and  croon  in  a  low  monotone  a  dirge-like  indistinct 


234  THE  MASK 

primitive  litany,  which  sounds  strangely  as  though  from 
afar,  a  faint  murmuring  from  dumb  inarticulate  throats 
— sorrowful  and  endless. 

"A  terrible  curiosity  drew  me  to  look  at  Zorakh.  The 
same  smile  that  I  had  seen  before  still  appeared  to  hover 
in  some  indefinable  way,  appeared  to  suggest  the  harbour 
ing  of  some  happy  momentary  fancy,  the  passage  of  some 
benevolent  thought,  which  had  become  arrested  at  the 
very  instant  the  spirit  had  left  the  body. 

"The  widow,  a  tall  gaunt  woman,  with  a  demented 
look  in  her  eyes  under  a  bulging  forehead,  sat  in  the  next 
room  and  was  being  comforted  by  her  neighbours.  Death 
had  wrought  a  truce  in  her  relations  with  the  dead — for 
poverty  is  no  friend  of  conjugal  happiness — and  for  the 
while  softened  the  hardness  of  her  second  nature,  which, 
as  you  may  know,  is  nearly  always  stronger  than  the 
first;  she  recounted  again  and  again  his  manifold  vir 
tues,  which  would  surely  be  considered  at  the  Seat  of 
Judgment;  she  told  of  his  brave,  uncomplaining  days  in 
bed;  of  course,  he  had  left  her  ill-provided  for — what 
with  her  three  little  ones  that  three  hundred  dollars  of 
lodge  money  wouldn't  go  very  far ;  still  he  must  have  ex 
pressed  a  death-bed  wish  for  her  welfare,  and  the  good 
Lord,  the  Care-taker  of  widows  and  orphans,  would 
surely  not  disregard  it;  she  believed  in  the  death-bed 
wish  as  strongly  as  she  did  in  the  existence  of  an  omnipo 
tent  God  and  of  the  Evil  Eye.  She  wondered,  and 
again  she  wondered,  as  to  what  his  wish  might  have 
been:  if  she  only  knew!  if  she  only  knew! 

"I  happened  to  sneeze  at  the  moment. 

"  'There !'  she  said,  'it's  as  true  as  he's  sneezed  !'* 

"A  cold  sweat  suddenly  passed  over  me  as  I  suddenly 
realised  that  Zorakh's  death-bed  wish  was  for  me !  And 

*The  sneeze  is  regarded  as  a  good  omen  among  the  Jews,  as  it 
must  have  been  also  among  the  ancient  Greeks,  for  we  find  mention 
of  it  in  Homer's  Odyssey  and  in  Theocritus. 


DEEPER  AND  DEEPER  235 

I    thought:    if    she    only    knew!    if    she    only    knew! 

"And  what  was  worse,  Serele  was  there,  Serele  heard 
it  also !  Suppose  Serele  should  tell ! 

"At  that  moment  three  or  four  of  Zorakh's  friends 
were  standing  in  the  doorway,  discussing  the  sad  hap 
pening. 

"  'He  was  a  good  man — a  good  man !'  one  of  them  was 
saying. 

"  'He  was  not  only  a  good  man — he  was  also  a  good 
Jew/  added  an  old  bent  man  with  beard  and  locks,  whom 
Rembrandt  might  have  painted.  He  was  attired  in  a 
black  capote  and  black  velvet  skullcap,  a  Jew  unmis 
takably  of  the  old  school. 

"  'Oh  yes,  rabbi,  but  he  worked  on  Saturdays  V  said 
derisively  the  youngest  of  the  group,  who  was  a  Social 
ist  and  did  not.  believe  in  God. 

"  'That's  very  true,  young  man,  but  we  are  in  exile, 
and  God  will  forgive  us  much.  If  it  is  to  sustain  our 
lives,  He  will  forgive  us  even  the  eating  of  pork.  As 
one  of  our  sages  tells  us,  there  are  only  three  things  He 
won't  forgive :  Idol  worship,  murder,  unchastity.' 

"That  aroused  the  ire  of  the  Socialist. 

"  'Oh  yes!'  he  cried,  'the  really  unforgiveable  sin  you 
do  not  mention  at  all.  It's  capitalism,  and  includes  all 
three.  You  talk  of  idol  worship — but  you  have  men  here 
who  worship  the  dollar;  you  talk  of  unchastity,  yet  these 
men  have  driven  more  girls  to  the  street  than  the  Lord 
can  ever  hope  of  saving;  you  talk  of  murder — murder — 
look  then  at  Zorakh — is  it  not  murder?  I  tell  you  it's 
murder — worse  than  murder — because  they  kill  you  so 
slowly.' 

"  'Perhaps  it  was  eating  pork  that  did  it !'  went  on 
the  Socialist  pitilessly.  'And  what  will  be  Zorakh's  re 
ward  in  the  next  world  ?  I  suspect  he  will  be  put  to  mak 
ing  button-holes  on  the  garments  of  the  dear  little 
angels.' 


236  THE  MASK 

"Then,  while  the  rabbi  went  to  attend  to  his  duties,  a 
third  speaker  intervened  with  the  ironical  suggestion  that 
Pharaoh  had  his  Moses,  the  capitalist  of  to-day  his 
Marx,  that  Marx  indeed  was  an  up-to-date  Moses,  who 
ejected  the  God  of  Tablets  of  the  Law,  and  had  put  in 
his  place  the  God  of  Statistics.  The  argument  waged  hot 
and  might  have  gone  on  indefinitely,  had  not  something 
happened  just  then,  something  terrible  and  grotesque, 
something  quite  unlocked  for. 

"It  was  just  after  the  coffin  had  been  nailed  down  and 
was  being  lifted  by  four  men  that  a  tall  gaunt  woman 
with  dishevelled  hair  swept  past  the  disputants  like  a 
whirlwind,  almost  knocking  them  over,  and  leaping 
through  the  door  she  hurled  herself  upon  the  coffin,  and 
made  it  fall;  it  rattled  violently  as  it  struck  the  floor. 

"It  was  Zorakh's  wife. 

"When  I  saw  what  happened  a  great  fear  possessed 
me,  for  I  at  once  understood  that  my  terrible  secret  was 
out,  that  Serele  had  told  her. 

"She  fell  upon  the  coffin,  clutched  at  it  as  if  it  were 
a  living  thing,  hammered  it  hard  with  her  bony  hand, 
and  cried  all  the  while : 

"  'Have  me  in  mind,  my  husband !  Me — and  not  the 
boy!  Do  you  hear,  husband?  Have  me  in  mind!  I 
am  your  wife,  and  you  have  children — and  it's  me  you 
ought  to  think  of.' 

"The  pine  box  resounded  hollow  under  the  blows  of 
her  hands.  There  was  consternation  among  the  mourn 
ers.  Two  men  laid  their  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  tried 
to  drag  her  away,  but  she  embraced  the  coffin  in  the 
deathlike  grip  of  both  her  arms,  and  sobbed,  and  cried 
through  her  sobs : 

"  'Your  last  wish  must  be  for  me — me — me — I  say 
me  I1 

"When  at  last  they  stood  her  upon  her  feet,  she  was 
assailed  with  questions : 


DEEPER  AND  DEEPER  237 

"  'What  is  the  matter  ?' 

"  'Why  make  such  a  scene  ?' 

"She  tried  to  tear  herself  out  of  the  hands  of  those 
who  held  her.  Suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  Serele,  who 
stood  frightened  in  front  of  her.  She  managed  to  seize 
the  child  by  the  arm. 

"  Tell  them,  Serele,  what  he  said  to  the  boy  before  he 
died.  He  wished  him  luck — d'you  understand,  he  wished 
him  luck,  him — a  stranger,  and  me  he  forgot.  He  wished 
me  nothing !  nothing !  D'you  hear,  people,  he  wished  me 
nothing  F 

"She  stood  there  like  an  animal  at  bay.  She  wanted 
to  throw  herself  on  the  coffin  again,  to  beat  it  with  her 
head,  her  hands;  she  wanted  to  tear  her  hair,  to  shriek 
so  that  the  dead  might  hear.  They  had  great  trouble  in 
leading  her  away,  and  she  went  on  shrieking  as  she  was 
being  led  away : 

"  'Have  me  in  mind — me!  me!  me!' 

"The  coffin  was  borne  quickly  out  of  the  house,  placed 
in  an  ordinary  cart  which  waited  for  it,  and  was  hurried 
ly  driven  away." 

Some  minutes  passed  by  before  John  Gombarov  spoke 
again. 

"Well,  that  shook  me  up/'  he  said  at  last.  "I  could 
not  sleep  for  nights,  thinking  of  that  tragic  flash.  What 
was  my  own  darkness,  my  own  pathos  and  sadness,  to 
that  mad  woman's  sharp  tragic  pangs  on  seeing  her  world 
slipping  from  her  forever,  a  world  which  had  hung  on  so 
frail  and  perilous  a  thread  as  a  death-bed  wish,  now 
irrevocable  ?  Although  it  was  not  my  fault,  I  felt  full  of 
pity  and  remorse,  as  if  deliberately  I  had  taken  from  her 
all  the  hope  she  had;  gladly,  gladly,  I  would  have  given 
her  wish  back  to  her — if  only  I  could!  And  yet,  lying 
there  of  nights,  sleepless,  a  great  comfort  came  to  me 
from  that  terrible  event.  My  troubled  darkness  receded 


238  THE  MASK 

and  receded,  became  a  nothingness  before  the  fierce 
tragic  blaze,  and  at  those  moments  I  ceased  to  think  of 
myself  and  my  troubles.  And  only  later,  much  later,  I 
began  to  understand  why  this  was  so.  The  illumination 
came  to  me  during  my  first  days  in  London,  where,  lonely 
and  troubled,  I  used  to  take  down  from  my  shelf  a  play 
by  Sophocles  or  Euripides,  and  found  that  it  soothed  me, 
rested  me,  lifted  something  from  me,  absorbed  my  own 
petty  sorrows  as  light  absorbs  darkness,  as  the  great  sea 
of  sorrows  takes  to  its  welling  bosom  all  the  sad  rivers 
and  streams.  And  I  began  to  understand  why  the  Greeks 
dedicated  their  theatre-temples  to  sorrow,  why  their 
tragic  plays  were  as  much  a  religious  ceremony  among 
them  as  any  other  religious  ceremony.  How  fortunate 
was  the  Athenian  in  that  he  had  a  way  of  purging  him 
self  of  his  sorrow,  in  losing  his  own  sorrow  in  the  tragic 
doom  of  Medea,  Agamemnon  and  (Edipus  Tyrannus ! 

"And  so  it  was  that  the  stranger's  sorrow  helped  me  on 
my  dark  way.  If  it  had  been  merely  sordid  it  would 
have  added  to  my  sordidness,  but  being  so  sharply  tragic 
it  absorbed  all  sordidness.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  the 
thing  was  as  great  as  a  Greek  play.  But  it  was  in  its 
own  way,  a  profound  and  tragic  illumination,  which  at 
the  time  seemed  to  have  served  a  need  in  my  life." 

"All  I  can  say,"  observed  Douglass  at  the  end  of  Gom- 
barov's  narrative  and  philosophic  reflection  thereupon, 
"is  that  you  were  not  born  in  the  right  age.  The  time 
is  out  of  joint  for  you.  What  makes  me  think  so  is  a 
play  I  saw  the  other  day.  It  was  called  'Barnborough 
Sits  Up'  or  some  name  like  that.  Barnborough,  you  see, 
is  the  usual  Yorkshire  industrial  town,  and  when  the  cur 
tain  goes  up,  that  is  when  the  fourth  wall  is  removed — 
for  that  accursed  fourth  wall  is  responsible  for  nearly 
all  modern  drama — you  are  dragged  in,  as  it  were,  to 
witness  the  usual  family  squabble  in  the  usual  Barn- 
borough  household.  There  is  the  usual  bawling  by  the 
-• 


DEEPER  AND  DEEPER  239 

usual  factory  girl,  who  lost  her  virtue  to  the  usual  scape 
grace  son  of  the  usual  factory  owner  on  the  usual  week 
end,  which  began  with  the  usual  joy-ride.  The  week-end, 
as  you  may  know,  is  a  great  institution.  If  it  were  abol 
ished  the  English  lawyer  and  the  English  dramatist 
would  lose  their  occupations.  To  return  to  the  Barn- 
borough  household.  There  is  of  course  a  great  fuss 
made  about  the  girl's  lost  virtue,  and  it  is  unanimously 
decided  by  her  parents  and  his  parents  and  the  real 
fiancee  of  the  guilty  young  man  that,  having  robbed  the 
poor  girl  of  her  virtue,  he  ought  to  take  the  girl  with  it. 
And  so  he  is  coerced  into  making  a  proposal  to  her. 
Well,  you  would  say  that  never  could  a  girl  have  been 
seduced  under  more  auspicious  circumstances.  But  no! 
The  dramatist  gets  in  his  great  stroke  of  work  here. 
The  girl  will  simply  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  young 
man !  She  has  had  a  jolly  good  time  while  it  lasted,  and 
that  was  all  there  was  to  be  said  about  the  matter. 
There  is  a  sensible  girl  for  you.  Moral  of  the  play: 
There  is  no  reason  for  making  such  a  hullabaloo  about 
a  factory  girl's  lost  virtue.  Well,  Gombarov,  I  wouldn't 
advise  you  to  see  this  play  if  you  have  a  sorrow  that  you 
want  lifted  from  your  heart." 

"It  seems  to  me,  Douglass,  that  the  subject  ought  to 
make  a  fine  comedy,  and  the  next  best  thing  to  a  fine 
tragedy  for  lifting  one's  sorrows  is  a  good  comedy.  The 
Greeks  had  Aristophanes  as  well  as  Sophocles." 

'That  may  be  true,"  answered  Douglass,  "but  the 
trouble  with  this  play  is  that  it  is  neither  a  tragedy  nor  a 
comedy,  it  is  a  sordedy." 

The  two  friends  laughed,  and  Douglass  called  for 
liqueurs. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A    TRAGIC    HERO    GOES   SLOWLY   BUT   INEVITABLY   TO 
HIS  DOOM 

WHATEVER  else  one  might  have  said  of  the  life  of  the 
Gombarov  household  at  this  time  one  could  not  in  truth 
have  said  that  it  was  a  sordedy — to  use  so  apt  a  definition 
invented  many  years  afterward  by  John  Gombarov's 
friend.  It  might  have  been  had  the  Gombarovs  been 
usual  people,  but  they  were  not:  their  characters  were 
sharp  and  decisive,  clearly  defined  to  outsiders  if  not  to 
themselves,  and  the  foggy  squalor  of  poverty  did  not 
obscure  them.  They  were  poor  now,  almost  beggars, 
not  bourgeois:  had  they  been  real  beggars,  their  beg 
gars'  rags  could  not  have  hid  the  tragic  poise  of  their 
torse,  the  timeless,  the  eternal.  They  formed  a  world 
quite  apart,  a  world  in  conflict  with  itself,  and  in  a  sense 
in  conflict  with  all  the  outer  world,  toward  which  they 
presented  a  united  front,  a  thing  as  it  were  of  discords 
melted  down  to  a  harmony.  This  outer  world,  taking 
time  off  between  their  routine  tasks,  discussed  the  Gom 
barovs,  and  thought  them  "a  queer  lot."  What  right  had 
a  man,  the  father  of  so  many  little  ones,  to  spend  his 
money  in  that  way,  on  all  that  useless  junk?  What  right 
had  Gombarova,  the  mother  of  so  many  little  ones,  to 
countenance  this  expenditure?  The  men  thought:  were 
they  only  in  Gombarov's  place!  The  women  thought: 
were  they  only  in  Gombarova's  place.  They  knew  what 
they  would  do  with  the  money.  They  would  start  a 
small  dry  goods  shop,  and  they  would  keep  everything 

240 


A  TRAGIC  HERO  GOES  TO  HIS  DOOM     241 

in  it,  from  a  needle  to  a  pair  of  open-work  stockings. 
There  was  always  a  new  girl  born  into  the  world,  and 
every  girl  wanted  both  a  needle  and  a  pair  of  open-work 
stockings.  A  pair  of  open-work  stockings  was  a  net  to 
catch  a  young  man;  ergo  from  a  pair  of  open-work 
stockings  to  a  bridal  trousseau  was  but  a  step.  From  a 
trousseau  to  a  layette  was  another  step;  they  wished  no 
one  so  ill  a  fortune  as  not  having  little  ones;  little  ones 
were  a  blessing  to  you  while  you  lived,  and  when  you 
died  there  was  some  one  left  to  bless  your  memory,  to 
say  Isgadal  t/Iskadash*  for  you.  And  the  dear  little 
ones — God  bless  them! — wanted  clothes,  and  more 
clothes ;  the  dear  little  ones  had  a  way  of  growing,  almost 
from  day  to  day,  like  the  little  wild  flowers  in  the  fields — 
God  bless  the  little  wild  flowers! 

There  was  Jacob  Geltman  &  Co., — Jacob  himself  begat 
the  "Co." — Joe,  Louis  and  Ben — Ben  really  did  not 
count,  he  had  a  hankering  for  art,  graven  images  attired 
in  open-work  stockings  had  also  an  attraction  for  him — 
never,  in  his  case,  leading  up  to  the  indiscretion  of  a 
trousseau ;  well  then — there  was  old  Geltman,  the  father 
of  the  trio,  what  was  this  old  Geltman  seven  years  ago? 
A  mere  beggar.  If  not  a  mere  beggar  then  a  mere  pedlar, 
A  trifling  difference,  vast  in  its  consequences.  Once  a 
beggar,  always  a  beggar;  but  a  pedlar — well,  a  pedlar  was 
merely  the  bottommost  rung  of  Jacob's  ladder.  A  well- 
stocked  dry  goods  stall  was  the  second  rung ;  it  was  next 
door  to  a  fishmonger's,  and  Jacob  had  the  strange  and 
almost  childish  naive  idea  that  if  a  woman  went  out  to 
buy  a  herring  she  ought  to  buy  a  pair  of  open-work  stock 
ings  also.  He  came  to  this  idea  by  a  process  of  pure 
deduction.  When  he  saw  a  young  married  woman  buy 
a  herring— and  he  knew  her  to  be  married  by  her  calm 
assured  manner,  just  as  he  knew  the  unmarried  one  by 
her  fluttering  ways — well,  then,  when  he  saw  a  young 

*  The  opening  words  of  the  Hebrew  prayer  for  th«  dead. 


242  THE  MASK 

woman  buy  a  herring,  or  two,  presumably  for  her  lord 
and  provider,  he  argued  to  himself  that  it  behoved  that 
young  woman  to  keep  her  dear  one's  love.  The  little 
fishes  done  up  with  bread  crumbs  and  butter  and  a  little 
heap  of  small  new  potatoes  dipped  in  sauce  was  one 
good  way,  to  be  sure;  but  that  was  not  enough,  we  do 
not  live  by  bread  alone.  And  he  reasoned  to  himself : 
if  the  young  woman  had  netted  her  dear  one  with  a  pair 
of  open-work  stockings,  and  in  a  sense  also  the  little 
fishes — for  a  young  man  is  not  only  a  dear  one  but  a 
provider  also — then  it  behoved  her  to  keep  and  cherish 
his  love  by  renewing  again  and  again  the  net  with  which 
she  had  caught  him;  the  strongest  of  nets  have  a  way  of 
wearing  out. 

There  was  another  thing:  an  aside  to  be  sure:  there 
is  a  popular  legend — this  was  before  women  had  pockets 
— that  a  woman  keeps  her  money  in  her  stocking;  well 
then,  if  this  was  true,  and  if  she  kept  it  in  an  open-work 
stocking  there  was  a  chance  that  some  of  it  would  dribble 
through  in  one  way  or  another.  To  be  sure,  there  will 
always  be  folk  to  find  flaws  in  a  man's  reasoning,  and  to 
say  that  it  is  far-fetched,  but  if  you  pinned  one  of  these 
fault-finders  down,  he  would  admit  in  the  end,  if  he  was 
an  honest  man,  that  Jacob's  reasoning  was  not  any  more 
far-fetched  than  the  reasoning  of  some  of  our  profound- 
est  philosophers,  who  loved  going  round  in  a  circle,  as 
on  a  merry-go-round,  without  getting  anywhere.  After 
all,  Jacob's  philosophy  was  no  hobby-horse.  It  led  him 
somewhere,  brought  practical  results.  And  that  was  the 
thing  to  judge  by.  For  him  the  earth  was  still  flat,  not 
round;  for  him  the  little  stars  shone  as  little  twinklers, 
not  as  myriads  of  worlds.  And  if  you  had  told  him  that 
So-and-So  had  left  Philadelphia  going  in  one  direction 
and  had  come  back  to  it  without  retracing  his  steps,  or 
that  a  number  of  men  had  gone  in  a  ship  to  discover  the 
North  Pole,  or  that  Professor  Sharpeye  sat  up  nights 


A  TRAGIC  HERO  GOES  TO  HIS  DOOM     243 

with  one  of  his  eyes  glued  to  the  bottom  end  of  a  tube 
which  pointed  toward  one  of  the  great  constellations  in 
the  starry  heavens,  he  would  have  remarked  in  a  tone  of 
utter  contempt:  "What  a  waste  of  time  and  money!" 
— in  a  less  agreeable  mood,  due  perhaps  to  indigestion 
or  a  bad  day's  business,  he  would  have  dismissed  the 
matter  even  more  curtly  with  the  remark :  "They  are 
simply  meshugah!"  which,  in  good  Hebrew,  means  crazy. 
Only  at  the  mention  of  the  canals  of  Mars  he  might  have 
pricked  up  his  ears.  Canals?  That  meant  there  were 
sensible  people  even  in  other  worlds.  Canals  meant 
trade,  traffic.  Canals  meant  straight  lines,  which  led 
somewhere.  Something  appealed  to  him  in  straight  lines. 
He  had  a  curious  and  deep  antipathy  to  circles.  He 
liked  the  long  straight  streets  of  Philadelphia,  down 
which  the  people  and  traffic  poured  in  one  steady  stream. 
He  liked  that  long  interminable  line  of  stalls.  There 
were  the  neighbour's  bigger  fish  strung  high  on  a  line, 
and  on  a  line  running  parallel  there  dangled  over  his  own 
stall  a  row  of  fancy  stockings  and  fluffy  things  dear  to 
a  woman's  heart :  the  whole  thing  was  so  arranged  that 
if  you  began  by  looking  at  the  fish  your  eyes  almost 
inevitably  ended  by  resting  on  these  frail,  feminine  de 
lights,  a  fatal  hesitancy  which  gave  the  watchful  Jacob  a 
chance  to  harangue  the  fair  one  upon  the  virtues  of  his 
wares  and  the  boon  they  would  confer  upon  the  charming 
purchaser. 

But  all  this  was  long  ago.  For  the  time  came  when 
Jacob  Geltman's  stall  grew  into  a  shop;  Jacob  and  his 
sons  and  daughters  stood  behind  the  counters,  while 
Jacob's  earlier  place  outside  the  shop  was  held  by  a  pro 
fessional  "puller-in."  Later  this  personage  was  dispensed 
with  as  not  in  keeping  with  the  growing  dignity  of  the 
shop,  which  was  becoming  a  small  department  store. 
And  so  the  house  of  Geltman  &  Co.  was  established,  and 
its  one  constant  object  from  now  on  was  to  add  "wings" 


244  THE  MASK 

to  itself,  with  which  end  in  view  old  Geltman  bought 
from  time  to  time  another  and  still  another  of  the  neigh 
bouring  properties,  until  it  might  have  been  said  of  the 
Geltman  fortune  that  it  fairly  soared  on  its  multiple 
"wings."  The  Geltman  house  now  maintained  forty  em 
ployees,  men,  women  and  girls,  who  were  paid  poorly  but 
neither  better  nor  worse  than  elsewhere.  All  in  all,  to 
judge  by  results,  old  Jacob  saw  that  the  Adoriai  was  with 
him,  and  in  virtue  thereof  he  scrupulously  attended  the 
synagogue  every  Saturday,  to  thank  the  good  Adonai  for 
all  mercies,  great  and  small.  And  in  this  respect  again  he 
was  neither  better  nor  worse  than  his  successful  Chris 
tian  brother  up-town  who  ran  a  Sunday  School  class  to 
ease  his  mind  of  its  too  golden  burden.  Ah — thought 
two  Pharisees  of  two  different  religions  in  two  different 
parts  of  the  town — ah,  what  a  burden  gold  is,  what  a 
responsibility!  And  to  save  the  poor  from  such  a  dire 
fate,  the  managers  of  the  various  departments  of  the 
Christian  and  the  Jewish  stores,  up-town  and  down-town, 
received  a  periodical  notice  to  cut  down  their  expenses. 

But  assuredly — to  judge  by  results — Adonai  was  with 
Geltman.  What  was  still  better — the  devil  was  not 
against  him.  Perhaps  Jacob's  reasoning  was  false,  and 
neither  Adonai  nor  the  devil  were  with  him  or  against 
him.  Perhaps  he  was  "small  shakes"  for  either,  and  it 
did  not  matter  to  either  whether  he  was  rich  or  poor, 
happy  or  unhappy,  whether  he  lived  or  died.  Perhaps  he 
prospered  simply  because  he  went  on  without  hinder 
from  either. 

But  this  tale  concerns  itself  not  with  Jacob  Geltman 
and  his  sons  and  daughters  and  his  growing  wealth  and 
his  pious  habits,  but  with  Semyon  Gombarov,  marked 
for  ill  fortune,  whose  ill  fortune  nevertheless  flared 
against  the  prosperity  of  the  other  like  a  blossom  of  red 
flame  against  a  grey  drab  wall.  He  was  godlike,  and 
so  God  held  aloof  from  him;  he  was  godlike,  and  so  the 


A  TRAGIC  HERO  GOES  TO  HIS  DOOM     245 

devil  was  against  him.  God  and  the  devil  made  a  pact, 
that  God  should  hold  aloof  from  him,  that  the  devil 
should  hinder  him;  God  was  so  sure  of  him,  the  devil 
was  so  sure  of  him.  As  for  Semyon  Gombarov,  what 
did  he  think  of  God  and  the  devil?  He  gave  thought 
neither  to  the  one  nor  to  the  other.  Unconsciously  per 
haps,  he  belonged  to  one  of  the  gods  of  the  old  hierarchy 
of  the  gods,  and  just  as  one  speaks  of  a  man  as  being  in 
Christ  and  Christ  being  in  him,  so  one  could  say  of  Gom 
barov  that  he  was  in  Vulcan  and  that  Vulcan  was  in 
him.  For — as  John  Gombarov  held  afterward  as  he 
looked  back  on  his  fated  stepfather — the  old  gods  were 
not  really  dead,  but  they  were  all  crucified  as  Christ  was 
crucified,  and  their  spirits  spread  themselves  among  men, 
each  according  to  his  kind,  as  surely  as  Christ's  spirit 
had  flooded  the  souls  of  certain  men — and  John  Gom 
barov  added  with  his  usual  irony :  "Not  necessarily  of 
ministers  of  the  gospel."  Indeed,  he  held  that  there  were 
pagans  and  artists  who  were  much  nearer  the  Christ- 
spirit  than  some  men  who  donned  black  and  fastened 
their  collars  at  the  back  instead  of  the  front.  In  one  or 
two  cases  he  had  even  detected  emissaries  of  the  devil 
in  this  garb. 

To  return  to  John's  step-father,  Semyon.     He  was  of 

god  Vulcan,  or  better  of  his  Greek  prototype,  Hephaies- 

tos.     He  was  lame  too  in  a  sense,  having  started  life 

under  a  handicap,  if  not  physical  then  material;  but  he 

loved  metals  and  fire,  there  was  joy  for  him  in  the  sight 

!  of  molten  metal  and  in  the  sweat  of  his  face ;  and  his 

'  crucibles  were  as  dear  and  as  sacred  to  him  as  the  sacri- 

!  ficial  urn  to  any  pagan  priest  performing  ancient  rites. 

:  He  gave  his  everything  to  this,  his  wife's  and  his  chil- 

!  dren's   everything  also,   nothing*  else   mattered.      Such 

a  man  was  Semyon  Gombarov. 

And  now  he  was  penniless.  "Quite  right  too!"  said 
some  of  his  neighbours  in  their  hearts,  having  prophe- 


246  THE  MASK 

sied  that  he  would  squander  his  money,  and  elated  at  the 
coming  true  of  their  prophecy.  The  truth  was  that  he 
had  at  last,  after  nearly  two  years'  labours  and  experi 
ments,  completed  the  installation  of  his  work-shop,  and 
all  he  lacked  was  the  capital  necessary  for  its  running. 
Where  was  this  capital  to  come  from  ?  Gombarov  spent 
his  days  looking  for  capital,  and  these  days  stretched  into 
weeks.  Men  with  money  winked  an  eye  at  their  partners 
when  Gombarov  with  samples  of  his  work  turned 
towards  the  door  to  go  out.  What  a  funny  man!  As  if 
they  had  nothing  better  to  do  than  help  poor  inventors. 
Why,  if  they  wanted  to  sink  their  money  there  were  so 
many  more  pleasant  ways  of  doing  it.  They  might  do 
it  at  the  gaming  table,  or  by  playing  the  races. 

He  advertised  in  the  papers,  and  received  a  number  of 
answers.  Strange^looking  visitors  came  to  the  house, 
mostly  of  the  get-rich-quick  type,  with  small  capital. 
They  had  expected  to  find  a  practical,  alert-looking  busi 
ness  man;  instead  they  found  a  fervent  visionary  who 
was  burning  up  with  his  own  enthusiasm.  All  that  was 
very  well  in  its  place,  but  enthusiasm  was  a  bad  thing  in 
business;  in  business  you  wanted  to  have  a  cool  head,  a 
head  as  cool  as  ice  and  as  hard  as  ice,  and  there  should 
be  no  warmth  of  any  kind  about  to  melt  out  even  a  few 
frail  tears;  a  business  place  ought  to  be  as  cool  as  a 
refrigerator;  sentiment  is  dangerous;  even  a  cool,  hard 
piece  of  ice  may  melt.  Business  is  business,  war  is  war, 
life  is  life — there  is  your  businessman's  imagination  for 
you.  But  suppose  you  were  one  of  those  ridiculous  pessi 
mists  who  had  read  Goethe  and  agreed  with  Goethe  about 
war,  trade  and  piracy  being  on  a  par  and  you  had  come 
to  this  businessman  and  had  said  to  him :  "Business  is 
hell,  war  is  hell,  life  is  hell,"  he  would  have  looked  you 
up  and  down  with  a  frozen  glance  and  thought  that  you 
were  an  anarchist,  a  lunatic,  a  dangerous  person  who 
ought  to  be  put  under  lock  and  key.  At  best,  if  he  had 


A  TRAGIC  HERO  GOES  TO  HIS  DOOM     247 

a  kind  heart  and  detected  a  look  of  sadness  in  your  face, 
he  would  have  thought  to  himself :  "Poor  chap,  he  is  a 
failure,  he  hadn't  enough  stick-at-it-iveness !"  But  no ! — 
zealot,  anarchist,  fanatic,  lunatic,  failure,  or  whatever 
you  might  be — for  once  you  are  wrong,  if  you  think  the 
business  man  has  no  imagination.  Haven't  you  read 
his  advertisements,  more  wonderful  than  the  literature 
he  reads,  haven't  you  seen  his  marvelous  dancing  electric 
signs  on  Broadway  for  which  he  pays  thousands  and 
millions  of  dollars  just  to  please  your  eyes?  Haven't 
you  delighted  in  his  quaint  epigrams,  with  their  real 
literary  flavour,  which  he  repeats  privately  to  his  partner 
on  a  day  when  business  is  dull?  "A  sucker  is  born  every 
minute,"  has  now  become  public  property,  but  the  revised 
version  says  "every  thirty  seconds,"  which  of  course 
doubles  one's  chances  of  success.  A  more  esoteric  epi 
gram  is  an  improved  version  of  a  mot  of  Sheridan's 
which  in  its  new  dress  appears:  "Every  man  ought  to 
have  a  dollar,  it  doesn't  matter  whose  dollar  it  is — " 
The  word  in  the  original  mot  was  of  course  "wife"  in 
stead  of  "dollar."  The  American  business  man's  version 
is  obviously  an  improvement,  because  it  is  much  less 
immoral  to  want  a  man's  dollar  than  a  man's  wife,  "but 
this  attitude,"  observed  John  Gombarov  to  his  London 
friend,  "is  somewhat  discounted  by  the  fact  that  the 
average  business  man  in  America  is  of  the  opinion  that 
his  money  entitled  him  to  a  virgin,  not  to  other  men's 
leavings,  and  having  once  got  hold  of  his  virgin  and 
made  her  his  wedded  wife,  she,  by  virtue  of  her  sur 
render,  in  her  turn  demands  that  her  lord  and  master 
dedicate  all  his  time  to  extracting,  for  her  sake,  other 
men's  dollars,  a  task  which  not  only  keeps  her  in  ample 
funds  for  shopping  and  pleasure  but  also  keeps  him  too 
busy  to  think  of  coveting  other  men's  wives.  One  is 
quite  enough  in  the  circumstances." 


248  THE  MASK 

In  some  such  words  as  these  John  Gombarov  held 
forth  for  the  benefit  of  his  English  friend. 

"You  talk  as  if  some  American  'peach'  had  chucked 
you,"  observed  Douglass  sarcastically. 

"Not  one,  but  three,  my  boy,"  replied  Gombarov, 
good-naturedly.  "Such  fine  girls  too!  Each  one  stipu 
lated  that  she  couldn't  possibly  marry  a  man  without  an 
income  of  at  least  fifty  dollars  a  week,  and  so  in  each 
case,  after  considerable  love's  labour's  lost — or  much  pre 
liminary  sparring,  as  you  would  say — I  had  to  throw  up 
the  sponge !  As  they  say  in  America :  'Every  man  has 
his  price.'  But  it's  nothing  to  the  price  of  a  woman. 
However  I'll  tell  you  about  it  some  other  time.  But  I 
was  telling  you  about  my  stepfather."  And  he  went  on 
with  the  story,  which  was  substantially  as  follows: 

Now  if  the  business  men  resented  Semyon  Gombarov's 
enthusiasm,  the  "sharks"  welcomed  it;  a  shark,  it  is 
easy  to  .guess,  is  a  human  biped  who  lives  by  taking 
advantage  of  others.  They  welcomed  it,  because  by 
feigning  enthusiasm  they  could  find  their  way  to  a  pros 
pective  victim's  heart ;  for  an  enthusiasm  on  both  sides  is 
like  a  door  on  one  side  of  which  is  written  "Pull"  on  the 
other  "Push,"  and  if  one  pulls  and  another  pushes,  the 
door,  however  heavy,  opens  easily.  And  so  the  sharks 
responded  to  Gombarov;  those  who  came  knew  some 
thing  about  metallurgy,  of  course,  and  one  or  two  came 
persistently  in  the  hope  of  catching  him  off  his  guard 
and  of  wresting  his  secret  from  him.  But  Gombarov 
was  no  fool,  and  he  showed  them  just  enough  to  excite 
them,  and  did  not  reveal  to  them  any  actual  clue  as  to  the 
composition  of  his  gold-like  metal.  Their  admiration 
was  real  about  the  actual  products :  knives,  spoons  and 
forks,  of  which  he  had  made  a  dozen  or  so  samples. 
The  sharks,  seeing  that  nothing  was  to  be  done  with  the 
man,  lost  their  enthusiasm  and  stopped  coming.  Gom 
barov,  unwearingly,  scoured  the  town  from  one  end  to 


A  TRAGIC  HERO  GOES  TO  HIS  DOOM     249 

the  other  in  quest  of  a  partner.  He  went  to  see  Jacob 
Geltman,  among  others. 

He  walked  along  the  interminable  rows  of  counters  of 
white  fluffy  things,  and  the  girl  shop-assistants  stopped 
for  a  moment  the  fiendish  movement  of  their  jaws  over 
their  chewing-gum,  and  giggled.  They  never  did  see 
such  a  funny  man — 

"Well,  I  never—" 

"I  do  declare—" 

"Why  don't  he  get  his  hair  cut?" 

"Ain't  he  the  limit?" 

"I  wonder  wat  dat  guy  wants." 

Jacob  Geltman,  seated  in  a  large  revolving  arm-chair 
in  his  private  office,  soon  knew  "wot  dat  guy  wanted!" 
Gombarov  unwrapped  his  samples  and  exposed  them  to 
Jacob's  astonished  gaze. 

"They  look  like  gold — nearly,"  said  Jacob  with  gen 
uine  admiration  at  these  table  utensils  which  resembled 
real  gold.  "Look,  Ben," — and  he  called  over  to  his 
youngest  son,  him  who  had  a  weakness  for  graven  im 
ages,  both  in  stone  and  in  flesh — "what  do  you  think  of 
this?  Why,  a  chap  may  now  be  born  literally  with  a 
golden  spoon  in  his  mouth.  They'll  be  making  beds  of 
roses  next,  the  sort  you  like,  Ben,  eh?  Oh  what  a 
world !  Oh  what  a  world !"  Old  Jacob  rubbed  his  palms 
together  like  one  dumbfounded  at  the  idea  of  being  born 
in  a  bed  of  roses,  with  a  golden  spoon  in  one's  mouth. 
Surely,  when  that  happened  Messiah,  the  long-expected, 
will  have  come  on  earth.  And  at  the  thought  Jacob 
began  to  hum  the  opening  lines  of  a  Yiddish  song : 

"Says  the  poor  inan  to  the  rich  man: 
'The  good  day  unll  come  when  you  and  1 
Shall  hobnob  together1 — " 

Then  as  if  suddenly  realising  that  the  visitor  had  come 
on  business,  he  said : 


250  THE  MASK 

'Til  tell  you  what  I'll  do  for  you.  If  you  will  send  me 
a  sufficient  supply  of  your  knives,  spoons  and  forks,  I 
will  give  them  a  special  display,  a  whole  window  all'  to 
themselves.  I  may  even  arrange  a  small  dining  room  in 
the  window,  with  a  table  covered  in  first-class  style ;  there 
shall  be  table  napkins  and  everything;  there  will  be  little 
wax  manikins  around  the  table,  and  at  the  head  of  the 
table  the  mother  will  sit — I'll  pick  out  the  handsomest 
wax  figure  I've  got — and  she'll  ladle  out  soup  to  her 
little  ones  with  one  of  your  golden  ladles.  What  do 
you  say  to  that  ?" 

"Unfortunately,  these  are  all  I've  got/'  said  Semyon 
Gombarov.  "In  fact,  I've  come  to  you  to  see  whether 
I  could  get  some  capital  to  run  my  works."  And  Gom 
barov  proceeded  to  explain  to  him  all  the  circumstances 
of  his  position. 

"Mmm  .  .  .  Mmm  .  .  .  "  Old  Jacob  grunted,  and, 
removing  his  spectacles  from  his  nose,  he  swung  them  up 
and  down  in  his  right  hand.  "Mmm  ..."  he  grunted 
again  and  again,  and  finally  turned  to  Ben : 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  proposition  ?" 

"There's  something  in  it.  It  might  not  be  a  bad 
thing." 

That  settled  it  for  Jacob.  He  merely  asked  the  ques 
tion  to  gain  time.  He  had  an  absolute  contempt  for 
Ben's  judgment :  after  all,  how  can  anyone  with  a  hanker 
ing  for  art  and  women  be  trusted  with  business  matters. 
The  fact  that  the  inventor's  ideas  appealed  to  Ben  was 
enough  to  settle  the  matter. 

"You  see,"  said  Jacob  in  a  faltering  manner,  "I'd  like 
to  help  you,  but  I  am  planning  another  wing  to  my  store, 
and  I  need  all  the  ready  cash  I've  got.  A  department 
store,  you  see,  is  a  great  responsibility,  a  great  responsi 
bility.  You  can  have  no  idea  what  a  worry  it  is.  You 
are  really  to  be  congratulated  that  you  have  no  depart 
ment  store.  If  you  had  one  it  would  simply  drive  you 


A  TRAGIC  HERO  GOES  TO  HIS  DOOM     251 

mad.  I  assure  you  it's  a  strange  state  of  affairs :  here  I 
own  all  this  place  and  yet  I  haven't  a  penny  of  pocket 
money.  That  reminds  me,  Ben,  don't  forget  to  leave  me 
fifteen  cents  for  lunch  before  you  go.  And  there's 
that  new  wing  to  build.  We  Jews  are  such  a  poor  people. 
Look  at  all  those  rich  department  stores  up-town.  They 
nearly  all  belong  to  Christians,  and  the  others  belong  to 
German  Jews,  who  try  to  ape  the  Christians  in  every 
possible  way.  But  the  Christians  are  always  richer.  We 
Russian  Jews  are  mere  bagatelles  beside  the  Christians. 
Look  at  Rockefeller,  look  at  Carnegie,  look  at  Morgan. 
What  ten  Jews  put  together  can  make  up  a  sum  as  large 
as  any  one  of  them  can  muster.  They  point  to  the  Roths 
childs  in  Europe,  but  just  consider,  I  beg  of  you,  how 
long  it  took  the  Rothschilds  to  collect  their  wealth.  They 
are  not  merely  rich  men,  they  are  a  dynasty.  I  feel 
ashamed  of  the  Jews  when  I  think  how  really  poor  they 
are.  It's  not  that  they  are  poor,  but  that  they  are  not 
clever,  for  if  they  were  clever  they  would  be  rich.  The 
Christians  are  clever  folk.  One  Christian  can  put  a 
dozen  Jews  into  his  pocket  when  it  comes  to  cleverness 
and  to  making  money." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Gombarov,  who  stop 
ped  for  another  hour  to  argue  out  the  question,  for  Gom 
barov  had  a  way  of  hobnobbing  with  all  sorts  of  people. 
Then  he  wrapped  up  his  samples  and  left. 

"Old  god  Vulcan  dug  metals  out  of  the  heart  of  the 
earth,  the  ancient  Christ  dug  love  out  of  the  hearts  of 
men.  Men  now  owned  the  earth  and  the  metals  of  the 
earth,  and  their  great  possessions  filled  their  hearts,  there 
was  no  place  for  love.  Vulcan  and  Christ  and  all  the 
crucified  gods  walked  the  earth,  and  there  was  no  place 
for  them  on  the  earth.  It  is  true  there  were  great  fur 
naces  working,  and  there  were  many  huge  temples  erect 
ed  to  Christ;  nevertheless,  there  was  no  true  joy  in  men's 


252  THE  MASK 

work  and  there  was  no  true  love  in  men's  hearts.  All 
the  fires  were  sterile:  the  fire  in  the  blast  furnace,  the 
fire  on  the  altar,  and  the  fire  on  the  hearth.  Was  it  for 
this  that  Prometheus  stole  fire  from  the  gods  to  give  it  to 
men,  and  suffered  therefor?  Was  it  for  this  that  the 
Son  of  God  and  the  Son  of  Man  gave  abundantly  of 
His  love  to  men,  even  all  He  had,  until  there  was  but  a 
single  gasp  left  in  Him,  and  He  cried  in  this  gasp:  *O 
God,  O  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me?'  Who  can 
tell  what  was  in  His  mind  when  Christ  cried  His  cry? 
Was  it  not  that  in  looking  down  from  the  cross  upon  that 
sea  of  leering  faces,  a  feeling  of  utter  despair  came  upon 
Him  and  a  thought  in  His  despair:  He  had  lived  in 
vain,  He  had  loved  in  vain.  Death  in  itself  was  nothing, 
but  that  they  were  putting  Him  to  death — was  not  that 
a  proof  of  His  failure?  God,  His  Father,  had  not 
granted  Him  sufficient  love,  sufficient  art.  The  sense  of 
His  failure  must  have  overcome  Him,  crushed  Him 
utterly.  For  He  was  an  artist  who  tried  to  make  a  per 
fect  statue  in  flesh  and  blood,  but  when  in  that  terrible 
instant  they  came  to  life,  when  in  His  pain  and  torture 
He  opened  His  eyes,  He  saw  a  sea  of  gargoyle  faces. 
And  the  most  perfect  Christian  art  has  been  of  gargoyles 
ever  since,  as  witness  the  Gothic  temples,  though  it  is 
true  it  has  not  been  without  its  angels,  happy  and  smiling 
only  when  painted  by  the  pagans  of  the  Renaissance, 
when  Vulcan  and  Christ  and  all  the  pagan  and  Christian 
gods  walked  hand  in  hand  and  there  were  no  petty 
quarrels  either  among  gods  or  men." 

"A  bit  preachy,  isn't  it?"  said  John  Gombarov,  show 
ing  Douglass  the  above  passage  he  had  lately  written  in 
his  notebook,  inspired  by  the  memory  of  his  stepfather, 
whom  he  had  so  violently  hated  at  one  time  of  his  life. 
His  stepfather  had  made  him  suffer  so,  and  he  also  made 
his  mother  suffer,  as  well  as  all  the  little  ones.  His 


A  TRAGIC  HERO  GOES  TO  HIS  DOOM     253 

neighbours  had  thought  him  utterly  selfish,  and  his  neg 
lect  shameful.  What  mysterious  and  unconscious  process 
of  thought  and  emotion  made  him  then  express  himself 
so  deeply  and  so  benevolently  about  so  unworthy  a  par 
ent?  Ah,  but  there  were  days  he  remembered,  days  in 
which  his  stepfather  appeared  to  him  dear  and  radiant 
like  a  stray  sun  ray,  which  fell  upon  one's  heart  without 
seeking  and  warmed  it  with  a  curious  impersonal 
warmth,  that  was  neither  of  love  nor  of  hate  but  beyond 
either. 

There  was  one  day  that  he  especially  remembered  in 
all  that  endless  welter  of  arid  days,  and  upon  that  day 
Semyon  Gombarov,  after  an  absence  of  hours,  blew  in 
like  a  buoyant  breeze  into  the  house,  and  scattered  the 
cloud  of  gloom  which  had  been  hanging  almost  motion 
less  over  the  house  for  days.  He  was  like  a  big  boy  who 
did  not  know  what  to  do  with  himself.  He  lifted  one 
child  after  the  other  in  his  arms  and  cradled  them  back 
and  forth  in  the  air  until  they  were  weary  with  delight. 

For  at  last,  at  last,  the  son  of  Vulcan  met  a  son  of 
Christ. 

Semyon  Gombarov  met  a  man  after  his  own  heart. 
This  man  had  but  little  money,  but  he  liked  Gombarov 
and  his  enthusiasm  and  trusted  him.  If  he  lost  his 
money,  very  well — then  he  lost  it.  There  are  such  cur 
ious  people  in  this  world,  who  are  sure  to  provoke  their 
neighbours  to  call  them  lunatics,  and  all  because  they 
choose  to  spend  their  own  money  in  their  own  way,  as 
their  own  whims  move  them  and  not  those  of  their 
neighbours.  For  days  and  days  on  a  time  these  two 
itnen  were  inseparable.  They  did  not  even  take  the 
•trouble  to  draw  up  a  form  of  their  partnership. 

Gombarov  sent  in  a  large  order  for  metals,  and  his 
i  partner  drew  up  the  necessary  cheque.  The  metals  were 
•to  arrive  on  a  certain  morning  and  Gombarov  went  to 
ihis  machine-shop  to  be  there  to  receive  them.  He  walked 


254  THE  MASK 

along  happily  and  buoyantly,  thinking  of  his  metals  and 
the  magical  fires.  He  would  begin  work  that  very  morn 
ing.  Hope  blazed  in  his  heart  a  multi-coloured  flame, 
hope  blazed  in  his  heart  a  rainbow  of  fire,  hope  blazed  in 
his  heart  a  Catherine-wheel,  which  sent  out  sparks  in  all 
directions,  a  spark  for  his  wife,  a  spark  for  his  every 
child;  Gombarova's  long  cherished  dream  would  come 
true:  Vanya  would  be  a  doctor  yet  But  he,  Semyon 
Gombarov,  he  was  the  heart  and  the  brightest  colour  in 
that  flame,  he  held  up  the  rainbow  with  out-stretched 
arms — from  end  to  end — from  finger-tip  to  finger-tip, 
he  was  the  vortex — the  immovable  centre — of  that 
Catherine-wheel. 

He  walked  along  dreamily,  his  eyes  turned  inwardly. 
He  walked  along  a  world  in  himself,  impervious  to  the 
outer  world.  Then  automatically  he  halted,  for  he  sud 
denly  realized  that  he  wras  at  his  place.  Almost  at  the 
same  instant  he  realised  that  his  way  was  barred.  There 
was  a  little  throng  gathered  around  the  curb,  along  which 
stretched  a  rope,  barring  the  way.  The  figure  of  a  police 
man  loomed  in  front  of  Gombarov.  Gombarov  was 
near-sighted,  and  he  bumped  into  the  stalwart  figure. 

"Where  are  you  pushin'?"  said  the  policeman  with 
some  irritation. 

"My  shop  is  upstairs,"  answered  Gombarov. 

"Oh — "  said  the  policeman,  lifting  the  rope  to  let  Gom 
barov  pass.  "You  can  go  up,  but  you  won't  find  much 
worth  lookin'  at,  let  me  tell  you.  There  was  a  fire  here 
last  night" 

Without  saying  a  word  Gombarov  entered  and  walked 
up  the  charred  and  gutted  stairway.  There  was  no  need 
to  use  the  key,  for  the  doors  had  been  broken  in  with 
firemen's  axes.  Gombarov  entered  his  workroom.  The 
policeman  was  right.  There  was  nothing  worth  look 
ing  at.  The  large  pieces  of  machinery  were  ruined  by 
fire  and  water,  the  small  delicate  mechanisms  were  ruined 


A  TRAGIC  HERO  GOES  TO  HIS  DOOM     255 

utterly,  the  leather  belting  was  for  the  most  part  almost 
burnt  to  cinders,  twisted  wire  lay  in  little  heaps  and 
barred  one's  way,  drops  of  water  still  kept  dropping  from 
the  roof,  the  whole  room  was  one  hopeless  ruin. 

As  if  the  meaning  of  the  whole  catastrophe  had  sud 
denly  dawned  on  Gombarov  his  face  grew  white;  the 
blaze  in  his  heart  went  out :  he  stood  for  a  long  time, 
deprived  as  it  were  of  all  power  to  think  or  to  move, 
and  contemplated  with  half-dead  eyes  what  an  ill  wind 
had  wrought.  Then,  in  a  half-stupor  he  walked  down 
the  stairs  and  past  the  policeman,  without  a  word.  The 
policeman  winked  his  eye  at  a  pal  and  remarked : 

"I  reckon  that  little  Jew  ain't  half  so  glum  as  he  looks. 
You  bet  your  sweet  life  he'll  collect  his  nice  little  pile 
of  insurance.  You  don't  catch  a  Jew  napping  at  that 
game,  no  sir-ree!" 

This  time  the  policeman  was  wrong.  Gombarov  had 
not  insured  his  property.  Earlier  he  had  had  no  money 
to  pay  the  premium — and  some  companies  would  not 
even  consider  the  insuring  of  Jew-owned  properties; 
later,  when  he  had  got  his  partner,  he  thought  of  the 
matter  but  kept  putting  it  off,  reflecting  that  a  day  or 
two  did  not  matter.  That  was  then  how  things  stood. 

About  ten  days  afterward  Semyon  Gombarov  received 
a  notice  to  remove  his  property,  as  the.  owner  wanted 
to  rebuild  at  once.  And  so  that  which  had  cost  him 
thousands  he  sold  as  junk.  He  received  a  hundred  dol 
lars  in  consideration.  Everyone  agreed  that  it  was  a 
.very  good  price.  After  all,  a  hundred  dollars  was  a  lot 
of  money,  much  more,  at  any  rate,  than  some  of  them 
had.  With  that  money  it  was  not  yet  too  late  to  start 
a  dry  goods  stall,  and  with  any  kind  of  luck  he  might 

en  do  as  well  as  Jacob  Geltman  &  Co.  The  neigh- 
Dours  were  good  people  and  they  meant  well,  but  there 

ere  certain  things  they  could  hardly  be  expected  to 
mow. 


256 


THE  MASK 


For  God  held  aloof  from  him,  and  the  Devil  was 
against  him. 

Alas,  alas!  There  was  no  Sophoclean  chorus  of  old 
men  to  render  homage  to  Semyon  Gombarov  and  his 
"woes  innumerable." 

But  the  man  in  the  street  who  heard  the  tale  from  a 
pal  chuckled  as  if  it  were  something  funny,  and  re 
marked  : 

"And  so  the  old  bloke  is  down  and  out!" 

"Yes,  Charlie,  down  and  out  is  the  word." 

"Why,  Jim,  you  could  have  got  a  million  schooners 
of  beer  for  the  money." 

"Yes,  indeedy." 

"The  old  fool!     Well,  well,  down  and  out!" 


CHAPTER  X 

AFTER  CEDIPUS  TYRANNUS  "CEDIPUS  COLONEUS 

AFTER  CEdipus  Tyrannus  CEdipus  Coloneus.  After 
the  rapid  tragic  clash  the  more  slow,  more  palling  trag 
edy. 

Everything  that  had  to  be  had  come  to  pass,  but  if  the 
fates  were  against  CEdipus  they  did  not  withhold  from 
him  the  boon  they  grant  every  tragic  hero  as  his  inalien 
able  right :  the  fulfilment  of  his  own  doom.  He  was  no 
miserable  rat  caught  in  his  own  hole,  waiting  to  be 
smoked  out. 

CEdipus  had  wrought  his  own  doom,  was  the  active 
instrument  of  his  own  fore-ordained  destruction.  En 
dued  with  the  tragic  will,  his  life  breaking  all  barriers 
and  dykes  poured  itself  out  in  that  short  hour  in  a  rag 
ing  torrent,  which  dislodged  and  swept  along  every  ob 
struction.  Then,  when  its  force  was  spent  and  his  own 
hand  had  brought  to  fulfilment  the  gods'  will,  he  found 
himself  deprived  of  all  that  had  made  him  an  exalted 
being  and  his  life  worth  living.  The  great  CEdipus,  King 
of  Thebes,  who  had  saved  Thebes,  had  become  a  blind 
wanderer. 

Nevertheless — CEdipus,  a  blind,  dispossessed,  querulous 
old  man,  was  still  a  potent  force,  an  instrument  of  the 
tragic  will,  and  a  perpetual  curse  to  his  offspring,  hardly 
less  to  those  who  loved  him  than  to  those  who  did  not. 

Even  from  his  grave  he  wielded  a  power,  greater  per 
haps  than  when  alive,  of  which  he  was  not  unaware — 
having  been  apprised  by  the  oracle,  wherefor  during 

257 


258  THE  MASK 

his  last  pilgrimage  to  Athens,  he  begged  Theseus,  King 
of  Athens,  not  to  reveal  his  burial  place  to  anyone. 

There  are  all  sorts  of  gods  and  men,  and  all  sorts  of 
kingdoms,  both  gods'  and  men's.  To  find  one's  kingdom 
impossible,  untenable,  is  to  be  banished  from  it,  set  wan 
dering  like  a  blind  beggar,  in  eternal  darkness. 

Thus  also  it  was  with  Gombarov. 

He  had  wrought  his  own  destruction,  was  the  instru 
ment  of  his  own  fate.  His  daemonic  energy  was  at  the 
root  of  his  tragic  will,  directed  by  a  still  greater  will, 
which  encompassed  it  as  the  universe  encompasses  the 
world.  You  twirl  and  twirl — you  flatter  yourself  that 
it  is  of  your  own  accord;  but  all  the  time  you  are  held 
within  the  gravity  of  your  own  orbit. 

The  gods  are  dead,  the  oracle  is  dead ;  but  the  gods  still 
live  in  men,  godlike  men;  and  oracular  words,  fore- 
sighted  words,  are  on  the  lips  of  wise,  fore^sighted  men, 
godlike  men.  Could  you  have  found  one  such  wise, 
oracular  man,  could  you  have  put  Gombarov's  case  be 
fore  him,  could  you  have  asked  him  what  were  Gom 
barov's  prospects  of  success,  he  would  have  told  you, 
would  the  wise,  oracular  man,  that  there  was  no  chance 
whatsoever  for  Gombarov,  that  he  was  indeed  a  godlike 
man  "riding  for  a  fall."  Gombarov  could  have  told 
you  so  himself. 

How  did  the  wise  man  know,  how  did  Gombarov 
know,  and  if  Gombarov  knew  why  did  he  persist  in  fol 
lowing  the  road  of  his  doom  ? 

One  knew  and  the  other  knew,  but  neither  knew  abso 
lutely.  Each  knew  that  the  likelihood  was  there. 

Had  Gombarov  known  absolutely,  it  would  not  have 
changed  matters.  To  know  one's  doom  is  to  go  towards 
it.  Every  man  who  is  half -man,  half -god,  bears  the 
seed  of  his  own  doom  within  him,  and  that  seed  bears 
fruit  according  to  its  own  soil  and  the  elements  which 
Lwork  upon  that  soil.  The  great  element  in  Gombarov's 


(EDIPUS  TYRANNUS  CEDIPUS  COLONEUS     259 

case,  watering  and  sunning  the  seed  of  doom,  was 
America. 

Even  in  the  earlier  days  he  felt  the  something  incom 
prehensibly  hostile  to  him  in  America's  atmosphere,  and 
as  if  he  even  then  had  had  the  tiniest  glimmering  of  a 
stealthy  impending  beast  approaching  him  in  a  dense 
forest,  he  experienced  momentary  hesitations  during 
which  a  strong  desire  was  awakened  in  him  to  retrace 
his  steps,  to  return  to  Russia,  to  be  among  his  own  kind. 
He  broached  the  subject  to  Gombarov  a  half  dozen 
times,  but  what  was  the  use  of  that?  There  were  the 
little  ones  to  think  of,  always  the  little  ones.  The  Gom- 
barovs  were  a  constellation  of  tragic  stars,  now  fixed  and 
unalterable,  obeying  laws  of  gravity.  There  was  no 
turning  back. 

And  when  the  blow  came  the  fixed  relation  remained 
unchanged,  save  that  the  bright-flaming  star  of  Semyon, 
then  at  its  zenith,  appeared  to  lose  some  of  its  lustre,  as 
if  it  were  wrapt  in  a  cloud  of  mist,  and  through  this  mist 
his  bright  flame  diffused  itself  in  a  kind  of  dead  light, 
more  terrible  than  the  other. 

He  sat  there,  in  the  house,  during  those  first  days,  like 
a  pale  dead  god  taken  down  from  the  cross,  and  with 
Gombarova,  hardly  less  pale,  standing  behind  him,  the 
picture  made  a  pieta  not  less  impressive  than  the  remote 
pietas  we  know,  painted  in  convention  by  Flemish  and 
Italian  painters. 

Gombarov's  black  hair  showed  for  the  first  time  spots 
'tinged  a  steel  grey. 

O  the  silence,  wave  upon  wave,  reverberating  like  a 
! far-spaced  sea!  It  was  almost  more  than  Gombarova 
could  bear.  If  he  would  only  lift  up  his  voice  in  anger 
•and  curse,  yes  curse — anything,  anybody,  men,  devil, 
God,  America — O  woe  to  Columbus!  But  that  holding 
I  of  breath,  that  unbearable  silence — more  full  of  terrible 
{imprecations  than  any  speech.  It  was  like  looking  into 


260  THE  MASK 

a  dark  abysmal  cavern  in  which  you  thought  you  saw 
the  moving,  many-gleaming  fires,  the  furtive  alert  eyes 
of  wild  beasts,  silently  circling. 

There  was  too  much  for  Gombarova  to  do  to  per 
mit  her  to  brood  too  long  at  a  time.  There  were  the 
little  ones  to  attend  to,  always  the  little  ones.  And  they, 
the  little  ones,  were  not  untouched  by  this  atmosphere 
of  brooding,  which  settled  upon  the  house;  it  gave  the 
faces  of  the  older  children  a  dull,  frightened  look,  as  if 
question  and  reproach  came  at  the  same  instant,  and  this 
instant  lingering  was  caught  and  imprisoned,  and  flut 
tered  thereafter  in  their  eyes  like  a  newly  caged  bird, 
for  days  and  days. 

They  were,  however,  quick  to  follow  their  mother's 
example,  and  to  busy  themselves  with  their  customary 
tasks.  The  gloom  of  the  house  went  as  it  came,  like 
smoke;  but  as  even  smoke  leaves  its  traces,  so  the  ef 
fect  of  the  calamity  was  to  leave  an  irritating  if  unde- 
finable  sediment,  which  at  odd  times  gnawed  at  one's 
spirit,  corroded  it  with  its  charred  particles  and  cinders. 

The  house  to  all  appearances  was  the  same,  yet  it  was 
not  the  same. 

Besides,  there  was  the  old,  ,the  thereafter  old  Gom 
barov  in  the  house,  no  longer  the  young  Vulcan  with  the 
attributes  of  his  patron-god;  and  the  sight  of  him  sit 
ting  in  silent  contemplation  or  pacing  restlessly  up  and 
down  the  room,  his  hands  folded  behind  him,  went  to 
one's  heart  like  a  stab,  reopening  a  young  wound,  the 
blood  oozing  therefrom  drop  by  drop,  causing  twitchings 
of  pain  as  of  a  slow,  dull  toothache. 

Slowly  but  inevitably  old  Gombarov  came  back  to  life, 
and  there  were  days  when  he  shook  himself  like  a  shaggy 
dog  who  had  lain  too  long  in  his  manger  and  took  a  brisk 
walk  or  stopped  at  the  house  of  an  acquaintance,  sitting 
up  with  him  until  dawn,  discussing  and  subtilising  on 
matters  of  Hebrew  theology. 


; 


CEDIPUS  TYRANNUS  GEDIPUS  COLONEUS     261 

The  emotions  the  sight  of  his  stepfather  aroused  in 
John  were  of  a  contradictory  character,  the  pendulum 
of  the  boy's  mood  swinging  between  pity  and  hate :  pity 
for  his  stepfather's  own  suffering,  hate  for  the  suffering 
he  caused  others.  And  this  mood  was  shared  in  a  meas 
ure  by  the  elder  children,  Raya  and  Dunya,  children  by 
their  mother's  first  husband.  The  others  were  as  yet 
too  young  to  understand.  Nevertheless,  they  also,  his 
own  young  ones,  had  undergone  certain  experiences  of  his 
influence,  rather  more  subtle  and  therefore  more  dan 
gerous  than  the  step-children.  For  they  were  of  his  own 
blood,  he  was  the  oak  and  they  the  branches,  and  there 
was  no  sprout,  no  leaf  on  those  branches,  but  that  it  had 
his  sap  in  it.  Why,  his  own  son,  Absalom,  now  barely 
six,  ran  from  his  father  one  day  when  the  latter  threat 
ened  him  with  chastisement;  and  as  he  ran  he  shook  his 
fist  at  his  father  and  uttered  cries  of  defiance.  While 
this  was  happening  Gombarov  bore  a  grave  face,  but 
afterward,  when  he  was  in  his  own  room  with  his  wife, 
he  laughed  gleefully  at  the  recollection  of  the  scene. 
After  all,  there  was  joy  in  the  reproduction  of  one's 
own  kind.  For  that  matter,  none  of  the  children  was 
a  garden  flower,  but  all  grew  wildly  and  unattended. 
They  were  children,  destined  to  remain  children,  with 
children's  outlook  on  life.  And  like  children,  fated  to 
suffer,  they  did  not  know  why  they  were  brought  into 
the  world,  the  meaning  of  their  lives,  and  why  it  was  their 
lot  to  suffer  and  the  lot  of  others  to  be  happy. 

The  presence  of  old  Gombarov  was  a  mystery  to  them. 
Other  fathers  worked  all  day  and  came  home  in  the  eve 
ning.  Their  father  stayed  home  most  of  his  time  and 
went  out  when  he  liked.  And  his  constant  presence  was 
as  the  presence  of  a  dead,  dull  light,  a  thing  sunless  and 
cheerless.  This  light  permeated  and  poisoned  the  spir 
its  of  all,  and  there  was  no  escape  from  it.  Life  for  a 


262  THE  MASK 

time  ran  in  a  groove,  and  the  stream  of  tragedy  ran  in 
subterranean  channels.  Although  this  was  a  period  of 
inactivity,  Gombarov's  mere  presence  continued  to  affect 
the  fortunes  of  his  circle. 

GEdipus  Tyrannus  had  become  (Edipus  Coloneus. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   ELEMENTS    SPEAK    IN    THE    COUNCILS    OF    THE 
GOMBAROV   HOUSE 

WINTER  had  come  again,  a  very  cold  winter  after  a 
very  hot  summer.  In  the  autumn  the  days  had  been 
hot  and  the  nights  cold,  and  this  made  the  Gombarovs, 
unused,  to  such  rapid  changes,  very  jumpy.  John  con 
tinued  to  sell  papers,  while  Raya  and  Dunya  were  away 
all  day  in  a  shop  where  they  made  artificial  flowers,  and 
they  came  home  in  the  evening  with  their  fingers  stained 
with  dyes  and  sore  from  the  prickles  of  wires,  which 
served  as  stems  for  the  flowers,  flowers  as  aromaless  as 
their  lives.  There  were  evenings  when  they  brought 
with  them  a  little  bundle  of  "home  work,"  consisting  of 
these  wire  stems,  the  petals  and  the  hearts  of  flowers. 
After  supper  these  several  parts  were  spread  across  the 
cleared  table,  and  every  one  who  could  helped  in  the 
work.  Elsewhere  John  sat  over  his  own  "homework" 
which  the  teacher  had  given  him  that  day,  and  this  was 
not  less  mechanical  or  less  tedious  than  the  other. 
Nearby,  close  to  the  stove,  sat  old  Gombarov  over  a 
newspaper,  and  now  and  then,  lifting  his  eyes  from  a 
particular  item,  he  would  remark :  "What  a  world ! 
What  a  world!  Ah,  this  America!" — and  he  would  re 
peat  the  context  of  the  item  to  Gombarova. 

Having  finished  his  lessons  and  slammed  his  books, 

John  walked  over  to  the  table,  picked  up  an  artificial 

daisy  and  began  to  pluck  the  petals:     "She  loves  me 

.  .  .  she  loves  me  .  .  .  she  loves  me  .  .  ."     But  in 

263 


264  THE  MASK 

spite  of  all  his  efforts  the  petal  would  not  give  way.    Then 
Dunya  saw  what  he  was  doing. 

"Look,  mamma,"  she  cried,  "John  is  destroying  our 
work." 

This  made  John  angry  and  stubborn,  and  he  would 
hold  on  to  the  flower  until  two  or  three  pairs  of  hands 
forced  him  to  relinquish  it. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  yourself,"  his  mother 
would  say,  "you  are  quite  a  young  man — and  you  expect 
to  be  a  doctor!" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  doctor,"  retorted  the  boy. 

It  was  quite  true.  He  had  no  ambition  to  be  a  doc 
tor.  He  hated  nothing  more  than  his  physiology  les 
sons.  For  the  manner  in  which  they  studied  their  physi 
ological  charts  at  school  was  calculated  to  give  the  pupils 
the  impression  that  the  subject  was  a  branch  of  geog 
raphy.  But  his  mother,  in  spite  of  the  loss  of  their 
small  fortune,  could  not  conceive  of  her  son  being  any 
thing  else  than  a  doctor.  She  lived  on  this  hope  like  a 
good  Christian  on  the  hope  of  future  life.  How  this 
miracle  would  come  to  pass  it  was  not  given  her  to  see, 
but  she  was  one  of  those  rare  beings  who  fundamentally 
believe  in  miracles.  This  faith  was  a  need  with  her,  and 
it  helped  to  sustain  her. 

All  the  facts  of  life  contended  with  this  attitude. 
John  was  now  thirteen ;  why,  at  his  age  the  elder  brother 
Feodor,  who  stayed  with  his  father,  was  an  educated 
man.  John  was  a  baby,  a  mere  suckling,  in  comparison. 
But  Gombarova  reflected:  After  all  America  was  a  free 
country,  and  every  one  had  a  chance;  it  was  a  country 
of  self-made  men,  and  even  a  bootblack,  so  she  had  been 
told,  might  become  president.  As  for  becoming  a  doc 
tor,  why  she  had  heard  about  two  or  three  ordinary  ped 
dlers  who  had  got  their  degrees  and  were  full-fledged 
"medicoes."  Not  that  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that 
nine  out  of  ten  of  these  pushing  young  men  had  merely 


THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  265 

exchanged  the  objects  they  peddled.  At  first  it  was 
collar-buttons  and  shoe-laces,  now  it  was  mixtures  and 
pills.  They  nearly  all  wore  Vandyke  beards  to  look  pro 
fessional  and  respectable.  But  a  beard  was  not  enough. 
The  acquisition  of  a  horse  and  trap  and  a  wife  was  the 
final  stamp  of  professional  efficiency,  and  it  brought 
shekels  into  the  pocket  of  the  practitioner.  Old  Gom- 
barov  again  and  again  gave  vent  to  his  contempt  for 
them  in  no  uncertain  terms ;  he  thought  these  young  men 
with  their  priggish,  conceited  ways  ridiculous  in  the  ex 
treme,  for  he  judged  men  by  what  they  had  to  say  and 
not  by  the  cut  of  their  beard,  and  he  had  greater  delight 
in  talking  to  a  bootmaker  and  a  blacksmith  among  his 
acquaintances  than  to  a  dozen  of  these  triangular- 
bearded  numskulls.  Only  the  other  night  he  had  stum 
bled  upon  a  small  cluster  of  them  in  the  back  room  of 
a  chemist's  shop,  and  heard  one  of  them  tell  gleefully 
how  he  had  prescribed  an  unnecessary  cough  mixture  for 
a  woman  in  pregnancy.  He  despised  the  petty  lawyer 
tribe  even  more,  he  had  been  a  litigant  himself  and  he 
knew  the  sort  they  were,  rogues  every  one  of  them, 
whence  arose  the  thought  in  his  mind :  "Law  and  hon 
esty  are  a  contradiction."  Nevertheless,  he  admired  the 
really  clever  rogue  for  the  ingenuity  he  could  put  into 
his  roguery;  it  was  purely  a  mental  process  and  it  fas 
cinated  him  as  much  as  the  intellectual  roguery  of  a  He 
brew  theological  debater.  He  was  not  above  roguery  of 
a  sort  himself  when  the  occasion  required,  and  if 
roguery  be  too  strong  a  word  then  wiliness  will  be  an 
excellent  substitute,  and  in  this  quality  of  wiliness  he 
was  not  far  behind  "the  godlike  Odysseus,"  who  was 
admired  by  the  gods  hardly  less  for  this  quality  than  for 
any  other. 

After  the  failure  of  his  project,  following,  so  to  speak, 
a  period  of  mourning,  Semyon  Gombarov,  still  in  his 
middle  age,  but  now  referred  to  by  the  neighbours  as  "der 


266  THE  MASK 

alter,"  that  is,  "the  old  one,"  began  to  give  some  atten 
tion  to  the  training  of  his  children.  He  deliberately 
employed  the  word  training  in  preference  to  education, 
for  he  associated  the  latter  word  with  methods  which 
seemed  to  him  quite  bad  and  quite  useless.  There  was 
too  much  obsession  with  careers,  not  enough  with  char 
acter.  When  Gombarova  protested  against  his  ideas  and 
urged  the  children's  need  of  preparing  for  careers,  he 
would  get  intensely  annoyed  and  retort:  "It's  a  nice 
world  it  would  be  if  women  had  the  run  of  things."  He 
procured  all  sorts  of  books  on  the  psychology  and  train 
ing  of  children,  in  three  languages,  Russian,  German 
and  English,  and  read  them  critically,  accepting  what 
pleased  him,  discarding  what  displeased  him.  Having 
arrived  at  certain  fixed  ideas,  his  mind  came  to  regard 
his  children  as  a  kind  of  base  metal,  which  he  wanted  to 
melt  down  and  transfuse  into  moulds  and  shapes  of  his 
own  making.  He  was  in  fact  engaged  in  the  task  of 
trying  to  change  their  spots.  That  they  were  his  own 
spots,  deep  and  ineradicable,  never  occurred  to  him.  He 
took  the  elder  children  out  for  walks  and  explained  to 
them  the  sun,  the  moon  and  the  stars,  and  the  workings 
of  the  universe.  He  tried  to  take  them  behind  the  great 
scene,  where  Stage  Manager  Jehovah,  pressing  a  button, 
released  the  thunder ;  where,  pressing  another  button,  He 
pulled  up  the  tides  of  the  sea.  He  explained  to  them 
the  currents  of  the  air,  the  winds,  and  the  internal  cata 
clysms  which  buried  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  Pompeii 
and  Herculaneum. 

"What  is  the  use  of  it  all?"  Gombarova  once  asked. 
"What  is  the  good  of  knowing  why  the  snow  falls,  when 
you  are  up  to  the  knees  in  it  and  your  boots  have  holes  ?" 

That  remark  drove  Gombarov  into  a  temper. 

"That's  just  like  a  woman,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice. 
"Always  looking  for  a  use  in  everything.  Why,  you  are 


THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  267 

becoming  as  practical  as  an  American.  I  have  a  good 
mind  to  go  to  Russia  and  try  my  luck  there  again." 

The  threat  had  its  effect.  Gomborova  was  sorry  she 
had  spoken.  Though  she  knew  he  had  no  money  for 
such  a  journey,  she  also  knew  that  once  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  a  thing  he  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to 
carry  it  out.  Meekly  she  busied  herself  again  with  her 
household  duties. 

As  for  Gombarov,  having  quickly  recovered  from  his 
outburst,  he  resumed  in  his  natural  voice,  for  Katya's 
benefit,  his  explanation  of  the  shape  of  snow  crystals. 

Katya  sat  listening;  but  her  eyes,  busier  at  the  mo 
ment  than  her  ears,  fixed  themselves  over  her  father's 
shoulder  on  Absalom  who  was  making  faces  at  her.  She 
found  it  irksome  not  to  be  able  to  retaliate. 

But  none  of  the  children  received  such  marked  atten 
tion  as  the  step-child  Dunya,  and  only  towards  her  he 
displayed  those  little  tokens  of  warmth,  condescending 
to  the  human.  That  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  she  was 
growing  up  into  a  bonny  girl,  full  of  quick,  active  sym 
pathies,  and,  considering  her  surroundings,  cheery  to  a 
great  degree.  But  Raya,  the  eldest  girl,  quiet,  domestic, 
and  self-effacing,  was  rather  neglected.  Her  heart  of 
gold  lay  quietly  and  deeply  within  her ;  and  covered  over 
by  homeliness,  as  gold  is  often  covered  over  by  the 
homely  earth,  it  gave  out  no  glitter. 

John  was  only  little  less  neglected  than  Raya.  It  was 
true  that  his  stepfather  taught  him  Hebrew.  It  was  their 
one  point  of  contact.  But  beyond  this,  old  Gombarov 
was  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  the  young  sapling  con 
tained  a  small  but  stubborn  knot,  not  to  be  conquered  by 
any  weapon  without  the  weapon  being  blunted.  Apart 
from  this,  between  the  paper  selling,  his  school,  his  home 
lessons  and  his  Hebrew  and  his  few  hours'  sleep,  there 
was  but  little  time  left  to  John  to  listen  to  lessons  on  the 
wind  and  the  snow-crystals.  But  one  night  he  learnt 


a68  IE  MASK 

much  about  them,  and  what  he  learnt  upon  that  tem 
pestuous  night  affected  the  fortunes  of  the  whole  Gom- 
barov  household. 

Upon  that  night  the  alarm  clock  struck,  as  usual,  at 
two-thin  |    usual    at    two-thirty,    John    drowsily 

opened  his  eyes.  There  was  a  strange  feeling  in  his 
head,  as  if  the  mechanism  of  the  alarm  clock  were  inside, 
where  the  brains  usually  were ;  but  there  were  no  brains 
there  now,  only  the  mechanism  of  the  clock,  and  it  ham 
mered  on  the  shell  of  the  skull  from  the  inside,  as  if  his 
skull  shell  were  of  metal;  that  was  why,  when  the  little 
hammer  hammered,  the  shell  that  was  his  skull  rang  and 
rang  with  a  rapid  bell-like  clatter.  Then  the  ringing 
stopped,  and  with  its  stopping  the  boy's  consciousness  be 
gan  to  return,  not  without  lapses,  and  in  one  of  these  John 
had  die  curious  feeling  that  he  was  in  his  bunk  in  a  - 
crossing  the  North  Sea,  that  he  had  left  Russia  only 
some  days  ago  and  was  on  his  way  to  America.  What 
of  place  would  America  be?  It  loomed  K 
a  wooded  mysterious  mountain.  There  were  little 
pathways  everywhere,  going  up,  up!  Peop  .is  he 

had  not  seen  anywhere,  emerged  from  among  die  trees, 
and  taking  him  by  die  hand,  they  led  him  to  their  huts 
and  treated  him  with  loving  kindness.  This  idyllic 
scene  vanished.  He  was  lying  in  his  bunk,  feeling  very 
sick.  The  winds  blew  with  fury,  die  waves  dashed 
wiWly  at  die  ship,  the  ship  plunged  and  reeled,  righting 
herself  each  time,  O  why  had  he  left  Every 

thing  was  blotted  out.  Again  consciousness  can 
him.  No,  he  was  not  in  his  bunk  in  a  ship  on  the  North 
Sea,  That  was  long  ago,  so  long  ag-o!  For  he  had 
:  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  it  touched  the  alarm 
clock.  Nevertheless,  he  felt  strangely,  as  if  the  house 
really  a  ship  plunging  through  a  dark  sea.  And  it 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  after  this  last  lapse  a 


THE  I.LKMKNTS  SPKAK  269 

clearness  came,  like  a  new  floor  opening,  the  other  d 
he  had   pasted   ihrongh  dosing  as  it  were  behind  him; 
nnd  looking  through  this  new  door,  the  last  door,  he  :.ud 
clcnly  realised  that  a  terrific  snow  storm  was  raging  out 
side.     The  wind  blew  and  shook  the  house,  the  shutters 
down  the  street  banged  and  rattled  in  rapid  sneer 
as  if  a  desperate  madman  had  run  amuck  and  with  white 
frenzied   hands  tried  to  tear  them    from  their  bin- 
something  whistled  weirdly  through  the  chimney  as  if 
it  wanted  to  enter  and  could  not;  something  moaned  in 
the  small  alley  between  that  house  and  the  next  as  if  it 
were  a  host  of  wood  goblins  frightened  out  of  their  tree 
hollows;  and  hearing  their  restless  moan  many  a  lonely, 
loveless  sleeper  clutched  at  his  bed-cover  and  pulled  it 
more  tightly  over  his  head  and  ears.     John  remembered 
one  such  night  in  Russia,  when  clinging  to  Marta  on  top 
of  the  warm  stove  he  heard  her  say :     "I'm  here,  don't 
be  afraid,  Vanya  yolubchik!" 

John  raised  his  head  and  stopped  to  listen.  Well,  it 
was  weather,  simply  not  fit  for  a  dog,  as  his  mother 
Would  have  said.  But  a  dog  was  one  thing,  and  he  was 
another.  lie  was  a  human  being,  a  boy,  that  is  a  man, 
and  a  man  could  always  stand  more  than  a  dog.  Throw 
ing  off  his  bed-cover  with  a  vigorous  if  desperate  move 
ment,  he  jumped  up,  quickly  put  on  his  things  in  the  dark, 
and  groped  his  way  toward  the  kitchen.  He  lit  a  can 
dle  and  went  to  the  tap  to  wash  his  face  over  the  sink. 
A  thin  stream  of  water  was  running  from  the  tap,  and 
it  had  been  left  running  all  night  to  keep  the  water  from 
freezing  in  the  pipes.  The  water  was  unpleasantly  cold, 
but  it  braced  him,  and  after  he  bad  rubbed  his  face  vig 
orously  with  a  towel  he  felt  much  refreshed.  Then  be 
lit  a  small  oil  stove  and  made  himself  some  tea,  which 
he  poured  into  a  tall  tumbler  and  added  thereto  a  gen 
erous  slice  of  lemon.  He  sat  there  quietly,  sipping  his 
tea,  listening  to  the  pandemonium  outside  and  thought 


270  THE  MASK 

there  was  nothing  so  good  in  the  world  as  sipping  hot 
tea  with  lemon.  He  had  just  finished  munching  a  sand 
wich  when  he  heard  low  muffled  footsteps  in  the  next 
room,  and  his  mother  appeared  in  the  doorway.  In  the 
faint  flickering  candle-light  she  seemed  a  white  sad- 
faced  ghost.  She  said  in  a  low  voice  full  of  anxiety: 

"I  wonder  whether  you  hadn't  better  stay  in  tonight." 

"No,  I  think  I  had  better  go.  What  will  my  regular 
customers  think?" 

His  mother  went  back  into  the  dark  room  and  came 
out  again. 

"Here,  put  this  on." 

It  was  a  sweater.  John  pulled  it  over  his  head  with 
his  mother's  help,  and  put  his  overcoat  on.  Then  his 
mother  went  back  into  the  dark  room  and  returned  with 
a  scarf.  She  wrapped  it  round  his  neck  and  tucked  it  in 
under  the  collar  of  the  overcoat.  She  kissed  his  fore 
head  and  told  him  to  take  care  of  himself.  John  blew 
out  the  candle  and  went  out.  He  felt  his  way  down  the 
stairs  by  running  his  hand  down  the  banister  and  shiv 
ered  when  he  reached  the  ground  corridor. 

He  seized  the  handle  of  the  street  door  and  began  to 
pull.  For  some  moments  the  door  would  not  give  way. 
Then,  giving  a  vigorous  pull  with  both  hands,  it  yielded, 
but  the  angry  hands  of  the  wind,  seizing  the  handle  on 
the  outside,  shut  the  door  to  again,  with  a  slam,  pulling 
John  along  with  it,  leaving  him  again  in  darkness.  The 
wind  roared  as  it  tore  along,  it  whistled  and  laughed 
maliciously  at  its  boy  captive  who  longed  for  freedom; 
then  forgetting  the  boy,  it  howled  loudly  and  weirdly, 
and  its  howling  sounded  like  the  howling  of  all  the 
wolves  in  the  world,  their  heads  lifted  high  crying  as  in 
one  throat  toward  the  pale  moon  in  one  prolonged 
slowly  dying  moan : 

Ooh-h-h-h-h.  .  .  . 

But  the  boy  standing  in  the  darkness  there  was  not 


THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  271 

yet  beaten.  Brute  strength  must  be  fought  with  cun 
ning.  This  time,  with  almost  superhuman  effort,  he 
opened  the  door  again  and  quickly  interposed  his  body  be 
tween  the  door  and  the  jamb;  pressing  between  the  two, 
he  slowly  extricated  himself.  The  door  slammed  behind 
him  with  a  great  bang. 

But  having  won  the  first  encounter  and  forced  the 
first  barrier,  the  real  battle  was  yet  to  begin. 

Once  outside  John  felt  himself  seized  by  the  long,  en 
folding  fingers  of  the  wind,  which,  gripping  him,  nearly 
knocked  all  his  breath  out  of  him.  Then,  for  a  moment 
feeling  himself  released,  he  walked  cautiously  down  the 
steps  and  on  to  the  sidewalk,  which  was  covered  over 
with  snowdrifts,  as  yet  showing  no  trail  of  human  foot 
falls.  He  waded  through  the  deep  snow,  lifting  his  feet 
very  high,  and  the  violent  gusts  of  wind  hitting  his  face, 
he  had  to  pause  to  take  breath.  The  black  smokeless 
chimneys,  row  upon  row  of  them,  peered  out  of  the  white- 
topped  roofs,  grim  and  black  monuments,  symbolic  of 
despair,  endless  in  monotony.  The  iron  skeletons  of 
fire-escapes,  almost  wholly  covered  with  snow  and 
icicles,  made  some  of  the  houses  appear  like  ruins,  grim 
and  fantastic.  Hundreds  of  wires  stretched  in  all  di 
rections  across  the  street  and  over  the  roofs,  and  many 
of  them  having  been  brought  down  by  the  storm,  dan 
gled  and  swayed  with  every  motion  and  current  of  the 
air.  The  electric  lights,  which  dotted  the  streets  at 
regular  intervals,  were  smothered  under  snow,  and  the 
light  they  gave  out  was  depressed  and  dull,  as  of  mist- 
obscured  moons.  The  air  was  a  heavy  purple,  and  this 
purple  was  cut  by  white  active  curves,  air  currents  made 
visible  by  snow  drifts  to  which  they  gave  swooping  wing. 
John,  as  he  plodded  along,  never  knew  where  one  of 
these  impetuous  white  birds  would  come  from  next,  or 
on  which  side  it  would  catch  him  with  its  strong,  wide- 
sweeping  wings.  Sometimes  he  felt  one  of  its  sharp 


THE  MASK 

wings  across  an  ear,  sometimes  its  struck  him  as  with  a 
lash  across  his  eyes,  sometimes  its  whole  body  seemed 
to  plunge  headlong  into  the  middle  of  his  back,  only  to 
.make  a  circle  and  return  a  moment  afterwards  to  hit 
him  with  full  force  upon  his  chest.  Or  was  there  a 
whole  flock  of  these  white-winged,  invisible-beaked  birds 
let  loose  upon  him  all  at  once  ? 

As  John  closed  his  eyes,  the  air  now  was  motionless 
beneath  their  hovering,  now  active  with  many-winged 
flight  before  assault.  When  this  combined  assault  came 
the  boy  panted  and  reeled.  Now  his  small  body  lurched 
forward  as  if  someone  gave  him  a  sudden  prod  from  be 
hind,  now  it  tottered  backwards  as  if  someone  pushed 
him  maliciously  from  the  front.  He  was  given  no 
respite.  When  the  big  snow-birds  were  tired  and  rest 
ing,  then  swarms  of  small  white  insects  came  in  headlong 
flight  and  struck  his  face,  burying  their  crystal-sharp, 
needle-like  stings  into  him.  He  closed  his  eyes  in  pain, 
and  lowering  his  head,  he  pressed  his  body  forward  and 
walked  against  the  wind  very  much  like  a  young  he- 
goat  about  to  butt.  He  feared  most  the  street  crossings, 
for  the  wind  was  treacherous,  and,  as  if  lying  in  ambush 
for  him,  it  had  a  way  of  sweeping  round  the  corner 
suddenly  and  of  tripping  him  up. 

Two  voices  spoke  to  him.  One  said:  "Go  back,  go 
back,  go  back!"  The  other  urged:  "Go  on,  go  on,  go 
on!"  ' 

i  When  a  cold  blast  came  he  felt  as  if  he  had  not  a  sin 
gle  stitch  of  clothing  on  him,  and  his  very  brain  froze, 
and  he  could  not  think.  But  for  a  full  five  minutes  the 
wind  was  quiet,  and  John  felt  happier.  The  worst,  he 
thought,  was  over.  But  he  no  sooner  came  to  the  next 
crossing  than  a  great  icy  fist,  as  of  an  arm  drawn  back  to 
the  elbow  then  shot  forward,  struck  him  full  force,  and 
he  fell  full  face  in  the  snow.  He  lay  there  quietly  for 
some  moments,  hardly  knowing  what  had  happened  to 


THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  273 

him.  The  snow-drifts,  like  carrion-birds,  swept  over 
him.  Something  whistled,  something  moaned,  some 
thing  laughed.  He  had  no  body,  he  was  in  a  world  of 
sounds.  He  was  a  sound  also;  he  had  become  a  warm 
sob,  merging  in  the  other  sounds. 

Then  he  felt  warmer.  As  he  lay  there,  hardly  daring 
to  breathe,  he  felt  his  blood,  absent  before,  diffuse  itself 
through  his  whole  body,  through  every  atom  of  it.  Then 
he  felt  a  warm  fluid  dripping  from  his  nose,  and  he 
thought  it  was  blood.  But  no,  it  was  only  his  nose  run 
ning  from  the  cold. 

His  consciousness  returning,  he  suddenly  grasped  the 
situation,  and  a  terrible  storm  rose  in  his  soul,  a  terrible 
anger,  a  terrible  resentment  against  the  tempest,  against 
life,  against  God  Himself.  What  right  had  they  to  treat 
him  like  that?  Something  like  a  knot  tightened  in  him, 
something  hardened  in  his  heart,  grew  stubborn.  Like 
a  wounded  enraged  wild  animal  he  rose  on  his  legs,  and 
clenching  his  teeth  and  gripping  his  small  fists,  he  began 
to  run.  That  was  his  way  of  defying  the  storm.  The 
wind  blew  furiously;  the  snow-drifts,  in  great  broad 
curves,  flew  over  and  around  him,  brushing  him  with 
their  wide  sharp  wings;  myriads  of  needle-stinged  in 
sects  assailed  his  face ;  strange  weird  sounds  fell  upon  his 
ears.  Let  the  winds  blow,  let  them  whistle,  let  them  moan 
to  their  hearts'  content !  Nothing  mattered  now,  he  was 
not  afraid;  he  ran  on,  superhumanly  cutting  his  way 
through  the  snow  and  the  wind. 

He  ran,  panting,  into  the  newspaper  pressroom,  and 
planted  himself  near  the  steam  radiator.  He  went  on 
rubbing  his  hands.  The  men  standing  behind  the  long 
counter  piled  up  with  papers  looked  astonished.  The 
foreman  in  charge,  who  usually  sold  him  the  papers, 
walked  over  to  him.  His  face  was  serious  and  stern. 

"What  do  you  mean,"  he  said,  eyeing  the  boy,  "by 
coming  out  on  a  night  like  this  ?  Ain't  you  got  a  mother 


274  THE  MASK 

and  father?  Were  you  born  on  a  winter  night  in  a 
barn  ?  Now  answer  me,  you  brat.  I  have  a  good  mind 
not  to  sell  you  any  papers." 

Then,  seeing  the  crestfallen  manner  of  the  boy,  his 
voice  softened.  He  took  a  small  flask  out  of  his  pocket 
and  uncorked  it. 

"Here,  take  a  swig  of  that,  I  reckon  as  it  won't  do  you 
any  harm." 

John  took  a  gulp  from  the  proffered  flask,  but  not  be 
ing  used  to  whiskey,  it  caught  his  throat  as  in  a  flame, 
and  he  began  helplessly  to  sputter  out  what  he  did  not 
swallow.  The  men  looked  on  and  laughed  good-nat 
uredly. 

"Here,  this  will  be  more  to  your  liking,  Johnny,"  said 
one  of  the  men,  bringing  up  a  steaming  hot  cup  of  coffee. 

"I  guess  if  that  boy  goes  on  like  that  he'll  die  an  early 
death,"  said  the  man,  returning  from  his  kind  mission. 

"You'd  better  have  another  guess,"  observed  another. 
"Take  it  from  me,  any  kid  that's  got  spunk  enough  to 
go  to  his  business  on  a  night  like  this  will  come  to  some 
thing.  I  am  ready  to  bet  anyone  a  plugged  dime  to  a 
bum  cigar  on  that  proposition !" 

"He's  a  little  Jew,"  said  a  third,  "and  Jews  don't  die, 
they  linger.  And  they  go  on  lingering  until  they  have 
brought  a  couple  dozen  of  kids  into  the  world.  And  then 
they  go  on  lingering  until  the  whole  job  lot  of  them  is 
married.  Arid  they  go  on  lingering  until  everyone  has 
brought  a  little  brat  or  two  into  the  world.  Then  the 
old  geezer  begins  to  think  of  kicking  the  bucket.  He 
goes  through  the  performance  before  a  large  and  ap 
preciative  audience,  as  the  papers  would  say;  before  a 
full  house,  in  fact.  I  say,  Johnny,"  the  speaker  called 
to  the  boy. 

John  came  nearer,  and  looked  questioningly. 

"Johnny,  how  many  brothers  and  sisters  have  you?" 


THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  275 

The  boy  screwed  up  his  face,  and  appeared  to  think. 
Then  began  to  count  upon  his  fingers. 

The  men  looked  on  astonished. 

"Don't  you  know  how  many  brothers  and  sisters  you've 
got?"  asked  one  of  them. 

"Not  offhand, "  replied  the  boy,  wholly  oblivious  of 
the  amusement  he  caused. 

The  men  burst  out  laughing,  while  he  who  had  made 
the  long  speech  looked  at  the  others  in  triumph  and  said 
with  unconcealed  glee: 

"Well,  boys,  what  did  I  tell  you?" 

John  felt  very  much  abashed. 

But  he  was  saved  from  further  questioning  by  the 
presses  beginning  to  run  and  the  men  going  to  their 
places. 

Before  long  John  got  his  papers,  and  out  he  ran,  tak 
ing  his  accustomed  route  and  stopping  at  his  accustomed 
places.  Many  a  scolding  and  many  an  extra  nickel  he 
got  that  night  for  his  venturing  into  the  storm.  The 
man  at  the  bakery  put  an  extra  pie  into  the  bag. 

Meanwhile  the  storm  had  begun  to  abate,  and  by  day 
light  the  wind  was  gone,  leaving  no  traces  save  for  the 
curved-topped  banks  of  snow.  The  sky  was  now  as 
clear  as  crystal,  the  cold  was  intense,  there  was  a  sense 
of  crackling  in  the  crisp  air.  The  frost  took  a  delight 
in  pinching  with  his  fingers  the  boy's  nose,  in  nipping 
his  ears,  and  in  tickling  the  bottoms  of  his  feet  with  a 
burning,  irritating  itch. 

The  day  being  Sunday,  he  did  not  return  home  until 
after  twelve  o'clock.  Once  home,  his  night's  battle  with 
the  storm  began  to  tell,  and  a  feeling  of  utter  exhaus 
tion,  long  repressed,  came  over  him.  He  was  quiet  all 
that  day,  and  his  mother  anxiously  attended  upon  him. 

That  night  he  could  not  sleep,  for  his  right  foot  began 
to  swell,  and  though  he  made  an  effort  to  obey  the  alarm 
clock  when  it  rang  he  found  that  the  least  stir  gave  him 


276  THE  MASK 

agonising  pain.  He  lay  there  with  closed  eyes,  his  mine 
and  heart  full  of  alarm  lest  he  should  die.  Now  anc 
then  he  moaned  softly  to  himself,  and  his  mother  cam< 
to  him  and  put  her  warm  hands  on  his  restless  forehead 
He  buried  his  face  in  her  hands  and  he  cried  softly 
Then  he  heard  a  soft  voice  murmuring  the  old  familial 
words : 

"Vanya  darling,  don't  cry." 

And  those  quiet  hands  and  that  soft  voice  soothec 
him  to  sleep.  Dreams  came  to  him,  none  of  which  h< 
remembered,  and  he  moaned  in  his  sleep  softly  at  wha 
he  saw,  and  it  seemed  strange  to  him  when  he  awok< 
that  he  should  have  this  curious  feeling  of  having  seer 
so  much  and  yet  that  there  should  be  nothing  that  h< 
could  remember. 

And  it  was  strange  to  him  to  open  his  eyes  on  day 
light.  He  did  not  appear  to  know  where  he  was  at  first 
But  soon  he  felt  the  presence  of  that  right  foot,  whicl 
had  gone  on  swelling,  and  it  all  came  back  to  him :  th< 
night  of  the  storm  and  all  that  had  happened  to  him  tha 
night,  and  fragments  of  his  dreams  clamoured  to  be  al 
lowed  to  pass  the  doors  of  memory,  and  not  being  al 
lowed  to  pass,  they  went  hurling  themselves  against  thes< 
doors  and  to  torture  themselves  and  the  boy  with  theii 
desperate  importunities. 

He  could  not  go  to  school  that  day.  But  that  was  c 
small  matter  compared  with  the  foot  itself,  which  die 
not  get  better  but  worse.  Gombarova  grew  quite 
alarmed  by  mid-day,  and  thought  of  sending  for  a  doc 
tor,  but  a  vision  came  to  her  of  those  uncouth,  half- 
raw  youths,  with  their  incipient  Vandykes,  their  desper 
ate  pretension  to  manners  and  erudition,  their  profes 
sional  surface — a  shell  far  too  thin  to  hide  their  colossa 
and  bursting  ignorance;  and  for  the  life  of  her  she  coulc 
not  see  how  she  could  possibly  trust  a  case  as  serious  a* 
John's  appeared  to  be  to  such  monstrous  nincompoops 


THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  277 

If  Gombarova  felt  rather  strongly  on  the  subject — and 
rather  intolerantly  in  the  opinion  of  her  neighbours — 
it  must  be  remembered  that  she  had  come  of  a  family 
of  physicians,  with  whom  the  science  of  medicine  and 
surgery  was  a  tradition,  its  followers  forming  a  priest 
hood  not  less  sacred  than  any  other.  And  it  occurred 
to  her  that  she  might  send  her  boy  to  the  hospital,  where 
at  least  he  had  a  chance  of  having  the  attention  of  spe 
cialists  and  the  care  of  nurses.  She  decided  to  send  him 
to  the  Children's  Hospital. 

The  question  was  how.  It  was  true  he  had  been  up 
for  an  hour  and  that  he  could  manage  to  hop  short  dis 
tances  on  one  foot,  but  the  way  to  the  tram  which  passed 
the  hospital  was  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  though 
it  was  warmer  than  it  had  been,  deep  snow  and  sleet 
covered  the  ground. 

John  himself  settled  the  matter. 

"I  think  I  can  manage  with  Dunya's  help,"  he  said. 

By  way  of  illustration  he  seized  a  stick  and  leaning  his 
right  side  upon  it  he  hopped  round  and  round  the  room, 
performing  the  circuit  each  time  with  unusual  rapidity. 

After  many  demurs  Gombarova  at  last  consented.  Not 
being  able  to  put  on  his  shoe,  she  wrapped  up  the  foot 
very  carefully  to  keep  it  dry  and  warm,  and  took  pre 
cautions  for  the  rest  of  him  as  well.  He  walked  out 
of  the  house,  and  leaning  on  Dunya,  hopped  along  at  her 
side. 

Once  in  the  street,  John  found  that  it  was  one  thing 
to  make  a  one-foot-hop  exhibition  across  the  floor  of  a 
small  room,  but  that  it  was  quite  another  thing  to  hop 
across  the  wet  and  the  slippery  sleet-covered  sidewalks, 
even  though  he  had  a  strong  support  in  Dunya.  The  way 
seemed  endless,  every  sharp  breath  of  air  acted  as  a  bar 
rier,  he  was  soon  tired.  They  came  to  a  crossing.  The 
sleet  was  deep  near  the  curb,  and  the  snow,  no  longer 
chaste,  deprived  of  its  whiteness  and  graceful  wind- 


278  THE  MASK 

formed  contours,  now  lay  in  dark  and  shapeless  littl 
heaps,  unrecognizable  as  snow,  and  spoken  of  by  in 
dignant  pedestrians  as  mud  banks.  John  leant  very  hea\ 
ily  on  Dunya  and  eyed  the  wretched  chaos,  which  ap 
peared  to  him  to  be  beyond  his  strength  to  pass.  Bt 
Dunya,  asking  no  questions,  lifted  John,  who  was  ai 
most  as  large  as  herself,  in  her  arms,  waded  boldl 
through  the  sleet  and  the  mud,  and  only  put  him  dow 
after  she  had  borne  him  safely  across.  Then,  leanin 
once  more  upon  her,  he  hopped  his  way  a  short  distana 
and  paused  again,  all  out  of  breath.  He  put  down  hi 
swollen  foot  upon  the  ground  for  a  moment  and  lifted  i 
again  quickly,  making  an  outcry  of  pain. 

"Dunechka,"  he  said,  his  right  arm  around  her  necl- 
"let  me  rest  for  a  moment,  I  am  tired,  I  simply  can't  g 
on." 

Dunya,  again  asking  no  questions,  lifted  him  in  he 
arms,  and  with  this  burden,  almost  as  heavy  as  her  ow 
weight,  walked  on  at  nearly  her  usual  pace.  Both  hi 
arms  clung  round  her  neck;  he  felt  tenderly  towards  he 
at  the  moment,  and  he  vowed  in  his  heart  that  he  woul 
never  annoy  her  again;  he  never  forgot,  she  had  en 
deared  herself  to  him  forever. 

As  for  Dunya,  she  walked  on  silently,  and  let  not 
sigh  or  a  word  to  escape  her  to  show  that  she  was  tirec 

"I  say,  Dunechka,"  he  said  at  one  moment,  "you'd  bel 
ter  put  me  down  now,  I  can  walk  myself  now." 

But  Dunya  would  not  listen  to  him.     She  bore  hir 
in  her  arms  a  long  distance,  which  appeared  endless  t 
him.     And  she  never  let  him  know  by  either  a  sigh  or 
word  how  endless  it  appeared  to  her  also. 

She  did  not  put  him  down  until  they  came  to  the  cross 
ing,  where  they  waited  some  time  for  the  tram.  Afte 
what  seemed  like  a  long  time  it  came,  and,  lifting  Joh 
once  more  in  her  arms,  Dunya  carried  him  into  the  trarr 


THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  279 

and  putting  him  down  on  the  seat  she  sat  down  beside 
him. 

"I  might  have  carried  you  pick-a-back,"  she  said  sud 
denly,  "it's  funny  I  hadn't  thought  of  it." 

A  genuine  regret  came  over  him  because  he  had  not 
thought  of  it  either.  He  not  only  might  have  been  eas 
ier  to  carry,  but  he  would  have  enjoyed  it. 

They  both  thought  at  the  same  time  of  their  days  in 
the  Russian  woods,  days  in  which  they  played  at  pick-a 
back,  see-saw,  hide-and-seek,  blind-man's-buff,  and  what 
not. 

"I  say,"  said  John  thoughtfully,  "I  wonder  why  when 
boys  and  girls  grow  up  they  stop  playing  at  pick-a-back. 
It's  such  fun." 

"You  silly!"  exclaimed  Dunya.  "Grown-ups  have 
more  important  work  to  do.  Who  is  going  to  run  the 
trams?  Who  is  going  to  give  us  lessons  in  history  and 
geography  ?  Who  is  going  to  make  flowers  for  women's 
hats?" 

That  appeared  conclusive,  but  John  was  not  satisfied. 
Why  couldn't  people  just  live  and  play  pick-a-back? 
What  was  the  meaning  of  all  these  things  ?  He  feared 
this  grown-up  world.  All  the  useful  things  appeared  so 
useless.  Only  the  useless  things  brought  joy.  His  young 
mind  grew  confused  with  these  thoughts. 

"Well,  here  we  are,"  said  Dunya,  dispersing  the  cloud 
that  gathered  in  his  brain. 

Holding  on  to  her  he  hopped  along  to  the  platform 
of  the  car.  Then  she  caught  him  up  and  began  to  carry 
him  to  the  hospital  doorway.  Even  while  she  was  carry 
ing  him  the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  must  appear 
before  strangers,  he  must  answer  the  questions  of  people 
he  had  not  met  before.  This  thought  frightened  him. 
His  heart  beat  nervously.  And  he  knew  he  would  have 
to  smile  whether  he  wanted  to  or  not.  That  was  one 
thing  he  learnt  about  Americans :  they  wanted  you  to 


280  THE  MASK 

smile  whether  you  wanted  to  or  not.  It  always  hurt  him 
to  smile  when  he  did  not  feel  like  smiling.  It  was  as  if 
he  wore  one  of  those  Hallow'en  masks,  one  with  a 
steady,  fixed  grin,  while  underneath  the  flimsy,  unpleas 
antly  odorous  cardboard  he  felt  hot  and  uncomfortable, 
and  sad  to  the  point  of  tears.  And  even  now  at  the 
thought  of  having  to  smile  he  wanted  to  cry.  A  cry 
struggled  on  its  way  from  the  heart  to  the  throat,  then 
lingered  awhile  somewhere  between  the  throat  and  the 
eyes;  sorry  for  so  frail  a  smile,  as  it  were,  it  reconsid 
ered  and  retreated  back  to  the  heart. 

Luckily,  John  had  not  much  time  to  think.  Soon  the 
dispensary  doctor  was  leaning  over  and  examining  the 
frozen  foot.  Dunya  did  the  talking.  She  spoke  quite 
easily,  without  embarrassment  or  hesitation.  The  doctor 
sat  down  and  wrote  out  a  prescription,  which  he  gave  to 
Dunya  with  instructions  that  John  should  lie  in  bed  for 
at  least  ten  days. 

"But  mother  asked  me  .  .  ."  faltered  Dunya,  "that  I 
should  leave  him  here.  We  can't  attend  to  him  prop 
erly  at  home." 

"Have  we  a  spare  bed  for  the  boy?"  asked  the  doc 
tor,  turning  to  the  nurse  at  his  side. 

"There  is  an  empty  one  in  Ward  C." 

"All  right,"  said  the  doctor,  "we'll  take  care  of  him." 
And  before  Dunya  put  the  shawl  on,  the  doctor  patted 
her  head  in  a  fatherly  way. 

Meanwhile  the  nurse  took  charge  of  John,  and  the 
first  thing  she  did  was  to  undress  him  and  give  him  a  hot 
bath.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  stood  naked  before  a 
woman  other  than  his  mother  and  his  whole  being 
flushed  and  burnt  with  embarrassment.  The  nurse,  with 
apparent  unconcern,  passed  the  sponge  up  and  down  his 
body.  Then  she  rubbed  his  body  with  a  rough  towel  and 
put  him  in  his  bed,  which  stood  in  a  large  room  with  many 
other  beds,  all  filled  with  young  patients. 


THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  281. 

He  remained  in  the  hospital  two  weeks,  and  though 
he  had  strict  orders  to  stay  in  bed  all  the  time,  his  foot 
had  sufficiently  mended  by  the  beginning  of  the  second 
week  to  permit  him  to  jump  out  of  bed  when  the  nurse 
was  out  of  the  room,  and  to  play  with  other  convales 
cents.  Apart  from  his  hunger — for  he  was  dieted  most 
of  the  time  on  bread  and  milk;  apart  from  his  preoccu 
pation  with  his  customers — what  would  they  think  of 
his  absence? — he  did  not  remember  afterwards,  in  the 
telling  of  this  experience,  just  exactly  what  had  hap 
pened  to  him  there,  what  thoughts  he  had  thought,  what 
fancies  he  had  woven  to  relieve  the  intolerable  monotony. 
It  was  all  like  a  fragmentary,  disjointed  dream,  with 
elusive  glimpses  of  light,  and  involuntary  penetrations 
into  darkness :  a  thing  indeed  half  dream,  half  night 
mare,  as  formless  as  chaos.  And  that  was  quite  nat 
ural,  for  in  the  months  which  had  passed,  his  small  body, 
notwithstanding  its  fundamental  energy,  had  been  taxed 
too  much  by  the  conditions  of  his  life :  over-work  and 
lack  of  care  and  play  and  sleep.  And  when  one  is  tired 
like  that,  rest  seems  not  like  rest  but  like  dissolution,  a 
falling  apart  of  the  particles  of  which  one  is  made  up. 
Nevertheless  when  the  period  of  rest  was  coming  to  a 
close,  an  active  unrest  seized  the  boy  and  he  was  eager 
to  be  out  again  if  only  to  resume  his  burdens.  Besides, 
the  longer  he  stayed  in  bed  the  more  he  would  have  to 
catch  up  with  in  his  school  tasks. 

Meanwhile  John's  illness  made  its  impression  on  the 
Gombarov  household.  The  parents  held  councils  as  to 
the  future.  Semyon  Gombarov  bestirred  himself.  He 
left  early  every  day  and  some  days  did  not  return  until 
quite  late  in  the  evening.  It  was  clear  from  his  appear 
ance  on  coming  into  the  house  that  his  mysterious  visit 
had  been  fruitless,  but  one  evening  he  returned  with  a 
more  satisfied  look  on  his  face,  which  made  Gombarova 
look  up  at  him  expectantly.  The  explanation  was  soon 


282  THE  MASK 

forthcoming.  He  had  just  paid  a  visit  to  a  fine  old  Jew, 
who  lived  about  seven  miles  out  in  the  country,  and 
who  had  five  sons  and  a  daughter  working  in  a  woollen 
mill  situated  there.  From  this  Jew,  Joseph  Shapiro  by 
name,  he  learnt  that  there  were  always  positions  to  be 
had,  if  not  in  that  mill,  then  in  other  mills  situated  within 
a  radius  of  a  few  miles,  thereabouts.  The  proprietors 
of  these  mills  let  cottages  to  families  and  employed  as 
many  members  of  the  family  as  were  capable  of  work. 
He  assured  Gombarov  that  Raya,  Dunya  and  John  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  finding  positions. 

That  was  then  the  good  news  which  Gombarov  brought 
home.  After  many  councils  had  been  held,  it  was  de 
cided  that,  unless  something  more  propitious  should  offer 
itself,  they  would  remove  to  the  country  that  summer, 
where  they  would  remain  until  they  have  had  time  to 
look  around.  At  any  rate,  it  would  serve  one  good  pur 
pose:  it  would  take  John  off  the  streets  and  he  would 
no  longer  be  exposed  to  the  elements. 

Such  was  the  decision  that  awaited  the  boy  on  his  re 
turn  from  the  hospital.  Curiously  enough,  John  did  not 
show  any  joy  at  the  new  prospect.  On  the  contrary,  he 
felt  very  unhappy;  the  thought  of  meeting  new  people 
and  conditions  and  being  imprisoned  all  day  in  a  fac 
tory  frightened  him  as  he  had  not  been  frightened  be 
fore.  The  thought  of  being  taken  away  from  school 
also  disturbed  him :  he  was  Number  One  Boy,  schooling 
was  the  one  competition  in  which  he  excelled,  it  was  the 
one  thing  that  gave  him  any  confidence  in  himself,  the 
thought  that  boys  who  were  behind  him  now  would  get 
ahead  of  him  tortured  him,  * 

Even  the  fact  that  on  the  morning  of  his  return  to  the 
street  he  found  his  corner  occupied  by  another  boy, 
who  claimed  the  corner  as  his  own  and  threatened  to 
thrash  John,  who  was  smaller  than  himself,  if  he  did  not 
leave,  did  not  reconcile  him  to  the  new  prospect,  intended 


THE  ELEMENTS  SPEAK  283 

for  his  good.  John  stuck  to  his  corner  tenaciously. 
Every  now  and  then  the  boy  came  up  to  him  and,  putting 
a  huge  oily  fist  under  John's  nose,  said : 

"Smell  this!" 

The  boy's  fist  was  by  no  means  a  flower.  It  was  an 
ill-smelling  fist  in  very  way,  and  in  ordinary  circum 
stances  John  would  have  recoiled  from  it.  But  that 
morning,  as  it  happened,  he  was  in  one  of  those  desper 
ate  moods,  when,  poignantly  conscious  of  the  injustice 
of  the  world,  he  felt  that  nothing  mattered  and,  trem 
bling  all  over  with  fear  and  rage,  he  had  the  impulse 
once  or  twice  to  spring  at  the  boy  and  to  fasten  his  finger 
nails  on  the  boy's  throat.  Something  held  him  back, 
however,  from  acting  rashly,  but  let  the  bully  only  dare 
strike  him!  He  held  his  nose  close  to  the  bully's  fist 
and  did  not  stir.  His  repressed  rage  and  fire  threatened 
to  split  him  lik'e  a  shell.  And  still  he  held  his  ground. 

He  had  won.  Whether  it  was  that  the  intruder  saw 
something  in  the  boy's  attitude  which  boded  ill  to  his 
enterprise,  or  whether  it  was  that  he  was  discouraged  by 
the  welcome  accorded  John  by  his  old  customers  and 
the  material  falling  off  in  his  own  sales,  he  slunk  away 
before  the  morning  was  far  advanced  and  did  not  re 
appear  again. 

That  was  not  the  last  of  his  encounters.  Unaggres- 
sive  himself,  he  endured  everything;  ever  reluctant  to 
attack,  his  defence  was  stubborn  and  adamant. 


CHAPTER  XII 
JOHN  "MAKES  PALS  WITH  KOLTCHUR" — AMERICAN  PLAN 

THE  weeks  rolled  by.  The  Philadelphia  spring,  as 
always,  came  and  went  quickly,  like  a  visitor  who  merely 
pushes  her  card  under  the  door  and  has  no  intention  to 
stop  for  a  pleasant  chat.  But  the  summer,  less  reluctant, 
had  sent  in  her  luggage  early,  in  preparation  of  a  long, 
stay,  a  too  long  stay.  The  spring  flowers  had  already 
withered  in  Independence  Square,  and  Chestnut  Street 
with  its  hot-breathing  cement  sidewalks,  a  scorching  sun 
beating  down  on  them,  was  a  flowerless  hothouse. 
Women  shoppers  walked  the  street,  their  charming  bare 
arms  showing  through  their  very  filmy  sleeves,  and  they 
held  their  coloured  parasols  over  their  heads  to  protect 
their  soft  skins  from  the  over-passionate  caresses  of  the 
masculine  sun-god.  The  men  walked  with  their  coats 
on  their  arms,  their  straw  hats  in  their  hands,  mopping 
their  brows  all  the  time  with  their  handkerchiefs;  their 
eyes  strayed  enviously  and  often  with  desire  to  the 
women's  almost  bare  arms.  The  open  trams  passed  by 
slowly  and  lazily,  and  a  new  passenger  wrho  had  just 
jumped  on  uttered  an  obscene  curse  in  his  heart  because 
all  the  places  on  the  shady  side  were  taken.  Ice  wagons 
passed  by,  with  the  water  dripping,  and  boys  fought  for 
the  small  pieces  when  the  ice  was  being  unloaded. 

In  the  Gombarov  household,  old  Gombarov  was  ex 
plaining  to  Katya  the  phenomenon  of  heat,  revealing 
the  curious  fact  that  Philadelphia  was  in  the  same  de 
gree  of  latitude  as  Madrid.  Afterwards  the  whole  fam- 

284 


JOHN  "MAKES  PALS  WITH  KOLTCHUR"       285 

i 

ily  sat  down  to  a  lunch  of  bread  and  butter,  cucumbers 
and  tomatoes,  drinking  it  all  down  with  iced  lemonade. 

It  was  the  middle  of  June.  In  another  week  the 
Gombarovs  would  be  leaving  town,  but  John  was  not  to 
leave  until  the  following  week  in  order  that  he  might 
pass  the  exams,  which  took  place  just  before  the  long 
summer  holiday.  He  was  not  less  reluctant  to  go  than 
before.  Even  the  thought  of  that  terrible  night  in  the 
storm  and  the  now  suffocating  days  on  the  cement  side 
walks  did  not  reconcile  him  to  this  new  migration.  His 
one  slight  consolation  was  a  set  of  the  Britannica  which 
he  had  got  hold  of  lately  under  circumstances  not  a  little 
peculiar. 

For  weeks  and  weeks  one  of  the  morning  newspapers 
had  been  exhibiting  in  its  window  a  large  glass  urn  full 
of  lima  beans,  which  bore  an  inscription  to  the  effect  that 
the  person  making  the  best  guess  of  the  number  of  beans 
it  contained  would  receive  as  his  reward  the  set  of  the 
Encyclopedia  Britannica  displayed  in  the  same  window. 
The  newspaper  printed  daily  the  further  announcement 
that  each  of  the  next  best  five  hundred  guessers  would  be 
presented  with  a  savings  bank.  It  also  printed  a  daily 
article  on  the  inestimable  value  of  culture,  and  of  the 
culture  contained  in  this  book  in  particular,  to  every 
man,  whether  he  be  a  doctor,  lawyer,  school-master, 
author,  journalist,  merchant,  or  school-boy;  indeed, 
everyone  ought  to  get  in  touch  with  culture,  which  was 
represented  pictorially  as  a  tall  buxom  wench  wearing 
Greek  draperies  and  leaning  over  a  volume  of  the  ency 
clopedia.  But  during  certain  hours  of  the  day,  when  the 
street  was  at  its  busiest,  the  real  thing — as  one  of  the 
onlookers  expressed  himself — sat  in  the  window  and 
jotted  down  notes  from  one  of  the  tomes  which  lay  open 
on  a  reading  desk.  A  crowd,  made  up  mostly  of  men, 
stood  looking  into  the  window. 


286  THE  MASK 

"Some  girl!  that  Koltchur!"  said  one  of  the  men  to  his 
companion. 

"Yes,  she  is  a  good-looker,"  replied  the  other.  "I 
wouldn't  mind  marrying  'er." 

"She  wouldn't  have  a  four-flusher  like  you — not  on 
your  tin  type!" 

"I'd  prefer  a  Gibson  girl  myself,"  declared  a  third 
man,  who  had  overheard  these  remarks. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  girl  turned  a  page,  which 
caused  her  long  bare  arm  to  stray  from  its  voluminous 
sleeve. 

"As  for  that,  she  ain't  got  nothing  on  my  wife,  My 
wife's  got  her  beat  to  a  frazzle  for  looks,"  went  on  the 
last  speaker,  having  received  no  response  to  his  first 
comment.  "And  if  I  'ad  her  in  hand  I  wouldn't  'ave  her 
messing  about  with  books  either.  It's  not  good  for  the 
queen  of  yer  home.  I  guess  I'd  get  'er  busy  on  those 
beans  you  see  there,  makin'  them  into  soup.  And  I  guess 
I'd  get  'er  some  real  clothes,  and  a  few  glad  rags." 

"Per'aps  she's  got  some  real  clothes  on,  old  top,  eh?" 
remarked  the  first  speaker. 

Everybody  grinned. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  So  she  may  have.  All  the  same 
I  wouldn't  'ave  her  fussing  about  with  books.  Now  my 
wife  ..." 

"Cut  that  out  about  your  wife,  I  ain't  seen  your  wife," 
put  in  the  second  speaker. 

"You  ain't  seen  my  wife?  Well,  that's  your  loss,  I'm 
sure." 

"And  what's  your  objection  to  books?" 

"Bless  you,  I  ain't  got  no  objection  to  books.  They 
make  as  nice  furniture  round  the  house  as  any  other.  I 
like  to  see  them  under  glass,  just  as  I  like  to  see  a  pianer 
so  long  as  you  don't  tinkle  too  much  on  the  ivories-." 

"What  you  want  is  not  a  wife  but  a  mannikin,  some 
thing  to  try  skirts  on,"  said  the  first  speaker  rather 


JOHN  "MAKES  PALS  WITH  KOLTCHUR"      287 

brusquely.  "It's  good  for  a  woman  to  have  kultchur. 
Between  books  and  a'  planer,  it  keeps  'em  out  o'  mischief, 
my  boy.  Take  it  from  me." 

"That's  where  I  beg  to  differ  from  you,  old  man," 
retorted  the  other.  "It's  them  books  as  make  girls  leave 
home.  They  get  new-fangled  notions  into  their  dear 
little  heads.  It's  a  hankering  for  heroes  that  they  get, 
not  for  mutts  like  you  and  me.  They  want  a  smart  'un 
who'll  save  them  from  falling  over  from  a  cliff,  that's 
the  sort  of  notions  they  get  from  books." 

"Why,  that's  the  kind  of  chap  usually  pushes  them 


over." 


"Yes,  I  know  that,  but  every  girl  is  kind  o'  willing  to 
take  a  chance.  She  wants  her  hero  if  she's  got  to  go  on 
the  stage  to  find  'im.  Queer  critters  them  girls.  And  so 
I  say :  No  kultchur  for  mine !" 

Then  the  conversation  gradually  switched  from  this 
serious  discussion  of  the  evil  effects  of  "Koltchur"  to  the 
beans  in  the  window,  and  each  one  gave  a  guess  as  to  the 
number  of  beans  in  the  glass  jar.  Then,  in  spite  of  the 
dangers  that  "Koltchur"  presented,  the  three  men,  ex 
cited  by  the  idea  of  getting  something  for  nothing,  filed 
into  the  office  to  buy  copies  of  the  paper  which  contained 
the  necessary  coupon  on  which  each  guess  had  to  be 
recorded. 

A  few  doors  up  the  street  a  lingerie  shop  window  was 
besieged  by  a  crowd,  containing  not  a  few  men,  peeping 
through  the  round  perforations  of  a  lowered  blind;  each 
perforation  bore  the  inscription  over  it:  "For  Women 
Only." 

John  also  sent  in  a  guess  as  to  the  number  of  beans  in 
that  glass  jar. 

In  due  time  the  announcement  of  the  winner  of  the 
prize  was  made.  John  was  disappointed.  His  guess 
fell  short  of  a  couple  of  hundred.  A  few  days  later  a 
smart  young  man  called  at  the  house  and  presented  John 


288  THE  MASK 

with  a  dime  savings  bank  as  a  reward  for  being  among 
the  first  five  hundred  guessers.  John,  of  course,  did  not 
know  that  every  participant  in  the  test  received  this 
prize;  so  he  felt  not  a  little  flattered  when  he  received 
his  award  and  the  man  stayed  for  a  chat  and  patted  his 
head  and  said  to  Gombarova  what  a  smart  boy  her  son 
was  and  what  a  pity  it  was  that  such  a  clever  youngster 
should  have  missed  getting  the  Encyclopedia,  the  posses 
sion  of  which  would  not  only  ensure  spiritual  but  finan 
cial  "returns." 

"Why,  as  soon  as  I  saw  the  boy's  face,"  exclaimed  the 
man,  "I  knew  at  once  that  Koltchur  was  in  his  line. 
Books?  I  am  sure  he  eats  'em  alive.  Yes,  eats  'em 
alive!" 

After  making  this  remarkable  declaration,  which  as 
tonished  John  not  a  little  and  made  Gombarova  smile, 
the  man  appeared  to  reflect  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
as  if  an  idea  had  suddenly  struck  him,  he  began  to  speak 
again. 

'Til  tell  you  what  I  can  do  for  your  boy,"  he  said, 
turning  to  Gombarova,  "you've  got  such  a  smart  boy  and 
he  ought  to  have  a  set  of  those  books.  I  hate  to  see  him 
disappointed.  I  have  young  'uns  myself,  and  I'd  like 
to  see  them  pals  with  Koltchur,  let  me  tell  you.  When 
they  grow  up  I  intend  to  present  each  one  of  them  with 
a  set  of  these  books  if  it  takes  my  last  red  cent.  Now 
seeing  that  you've  got  such  a  smart  boy,  I've  got  a  propo 
sition  to  make  to  you.  Our  paper,  anxious  not  to  disap 
point  so  many  people,  has  decided  to  offer  a  limited  num 
ber  of  sets  at  cost  price.  A  limited  number  of  sets,  mind 
you,  for  those  deserving  of  consideration.  Now  I  have 
seen  your  boy  and  I'd  like  him  to  have  a  set.  He  ought 
to  have  one,  if  anybody.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  look 
at  him  to  know  that  he's  been  flirting  with  books.  He's 
a  real  smart  'un,  he  eats  'em  alive.  But  he  won't  need  to 
get  any  more  books  when  he  gets  this  one  ..." 


JOHN  "MAKES  PALS  WITH  KOLTCHUR"      289 

At  this  moment  he  pulled  out  from  his  pocket  a  set 
of  dummy  bindings  and  opening  them  out  like  an  accord- 
eon  he  held  them  up,  stretching  from  the  tip  of  one  arm 
to  the  other.  Then  putting  down  the  set  of  Encyclo 
pedia  backs  on  the  table,  where  their  golden-inscribed 
titles  dazzled  insinuatingly,  he  went  on  to  explain  : 

"This  book  is  the  biggest  book  in  the  world.  It  con 
tains  everything.  What  it  does  not  contain  is  not  worth 
knowing.  All  the  best  professors  and  pen-pushers  of  the 
world  have  written  for  it." 

Then  he  rattled  off  the  number  of  pages  it  contained, 
the  number  of  articles  that  were  in  it,  the  number  of  illus 
trations  that  accompanied  them,  the  number  of  writers 
that  contributed  to  it,  the  number  of  years  that  it  took 
to  put  the  new  edition  together,  the  number  of  miles  the 
pages  would  cover  if  spread  in  one  direction  flat  on  the 
ground,  and  other  equally  bewildering  facts,  staggering 
the  mind.  And  all  this,  he  plainly  implied,  was  done  to 
satisfy  the  cultural  cravings  of  one  little  boy  by  the  name 
of  John.  Before  the  man  was  done  John  was  quite  con 
vinced  that  this  great,  voluminous  and  all-embracing 
work  was  written  for  him  and  for  no  one  else. 

"Now,  my  proposition  is  this,"  said  the  man.  "I  will 
deliver  the  books  now,  and  if  your  boy  will  put  a  dime  a 
day  into  this  savings-bank  he  can  pay  off  in  twenty-five 
months  in  monthly  payments  of  three  dollars." 

That  was  a  lot  of  money,  as  desirable  as  the  books 
seemed. 

"Come  for  your  answer  tomorrow,"  said  Gombarova. 
'We  must  think  it  over  before  we  go  into  it." 

"All  right,"  said  the  man,  rising  to  go,  "only  mind, 
don't  delay  too  long.  We've  got  a  limited  number  of  sets 
only,  and  they  are  going  like  hot  cakes." 

After  consultation  with  Gombarov  it  was  decided  to 
take  the  books.  The  truth  was  that  in  his  heart  Gom 
barov  welcomed  the  idea  as  much  for  his  own  sake  as  for 


290  THE  MASK 

John's.  And  so  John  suddenly  became  the  nominal  pos 
sessor  of  a  great  library,  which  had  at  least  one  assidu 
ous  reader — his  stepfather.  John  had  previously  saved 
up  three  dollars.  This  he  used  as  an  initial  payment  on 
the  books,  but  from  the  day  the  books  arrived  he  was 
allowed  a  dime  a  day  out  of  his  earnings  to  drop  into  the 
savings-bank. 

A  week  later  the  family  left  for  the  country  to  begin 
their  new  life,  but  John  stopped  in  town  a  week  longer 
to  pass  his  exams.  He  slept  every  night  on  the  floor  of 
the  dark  corridor  adjoining  the  rooms  the  Gombarovs 
had  just  quitted,  and  he  got  his  meals  from  a  good  wo 
man  in  the  house  with  whom  his  mother  had  made  an 
arrangement.  In  a  few  days,  just  as  he  began  to  get 
accustomed  to  this  manner  of  living,  he  began  to  receive 
frantic  letters  from  home,  urging  him  not  to  wait  for  his 
exams,  but  to  come  at  once,  as  his  mother  was  much 
alarmed  on  his  account. 

Reluctantly  he  acquiesced,  and  on  the  day  following 
his  arrival  at  Shoddy  Hill  he  was  appointed  a  bobbin-boy 
at  the  Shoddy  Mills.  His  work  consisted  in  gathering 
up  the  discarded  bobbins  at  the  looms  into  a  large  basket, 
which  he  afterwards  shouldered  and  carried  up  three 
flights  of  stairs  to  the  rooms  which  contained  the  "spin 
ning  mules."  He  did  this  all  day.  His  hours  were  from 
seven  in  the  morning  to  six  in  the  evening.  His  wages 
were  three  dollars  a  week,  and  as  many  insults  as  he 
could  stand  from  the  Irish  boys,  who,  coming  of  an 
oppressed  race,  took  a  delight,  when  the  chance  offered 
of  oppressing  others,  less  fortunate  than  themselves. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TWO  LONG  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER CURIOUS 

ADVENTURES,  MOSTLY  OF  THE  SOUL 

ONCE  more  John  Gombarov  and  his  friend  were  sit 
ting  in  Cafe  Royal.  At  Douglass's  own  suggestion, 
Gombarov  was  telling  him  of  Vanya's  life  in  the  country 
and  at  the  mill,  pausing  by  the  way  to  make  his  custom 
ary  Gombarovian  reflections  on  life.  Throughout  the 
narrative  he  never  ceased  to  refer  to  Vanya  in  the  third 
person;  to  an  outsider  he  surely  would  have  given  the 
impression  that  he  was  speaking  of  someone  else's  child 
hood,  not  his  own. 

Gombarov  no  sooner  began  to  talk  than  he  quite 
suddenly  bent  his  head  and  begged  his  friend  in  a  whisper 
,o  do  the  same  quickly.  After  a  few  moments  had 
elapsed  Gombarov  raised  his  head  again,  and  once  more 
faced  Douglass. 

"It  was  Tobias  Bagg  who  just  passed  us.  I  was  afraid 
would  see  us,  and  sit  down  with  us.  He  has  a  way 
of  treating  you  to  drinks,  yes  even  to  a  lavish  dinner,  and 
;hen  imagines  that  he  may  treat  himself  to  one  or  two 
of  your  ideas.  I  am  glad  you  are  a  painter,  Douglass,  not 
a  writer.  If  you  were  a  writer,  I  should  be  afraid  to  say 
a,  word  to  you.  We  are  a  race  of  thieves,  and  every  mo 
ment  of  our  lives,  when  we  are  not  asleep,  is  spent  in 
Tying  to  extract  something  from  our  fellows.  Well,  they 
>ay  'there's  honor  among  thieves.'  But  I  often  wonder 
whether  there  is  a  shred  of  honor  among  writers.  A 
)lague  upon  them  all!  But  this  fellow  Bagg  is  partial- 

291 


292  THE  MASK 

larly  obvious.  Then  there  is  the  race  of  modern  novel 
ists.  Talk  of  parasites.  There's  Thomas  Lampton's  las 
novel,  'The  Vagrant'.  I  haven't  read  the  book  myself 
but  everyone  tells  me  that  there's  hardly  a  character  ir 
Cafe  Royal  who  is  not  in  it.  The  book  is  evidently  ful 
of  rogues,  yet  curiously  enough  everyone  in  it  feels  flat 
tered  at  having  attracted  the  attention  of  so  distinguishec 
a  personage.  You  would  think  that  there  would  be  < 
dozen  people  rushing  to  punch  the  author's  head ;  but  no 
this  is  an  age  of  advertisement,  and  nothing  is  considerec 
so  depreciatory  as  being  ignored." 

"But  now/*  said  Gombarov,  resuming  his  narrative 
about  Vanya,  "we  come  to  one  of  those  gaps  in  life  hare 
to  describe,  two  long  years  in  a  boy's  life,  in  which,  apar 
from  a  few  isolated  incidents,  nothing  apparently  hap 
pens  of  any  importance.  It  was  as  if,  walking  througl 
a  dense  wood,  you  had  come  upon  a  tangle  of  bushe: 
which  barred  your  progress,  caught  you  in  their  thorn] 
embrace  if  you  tried  to  make  your  way.  Vanya  fough 
in  it,  the  whole  Gombarov  family  fought  in  it,  the] 
scratched  themselves,  wore  themselves  out  struggling 
nothing  happened.  At  least,  nothing  seemed  to  happen. 

"The  Gombarovs,"  he  went  on — Douglas  had  not  ye 
got  over  his  astonishment  at  his  friend's  cool  detachec 
way  of  speaking  of  his  family  in  the  third  person — "Th< 
Gombarovs  soon  found  that  they  were  unable  to  live  01 
the  small  wretched  earnings  of  Raya,  Dunya  and  John 
and  so,  after  some  deliberation,  it  was  decided  that  Mrs 
Gombarov  herself  should  take  a  job  in  the  factory.  Thi; 
she  did  cheerfully  enough,  and  one  might  have  seen  hei 
every  morning  at  six-thirty,  accompanied  by  her  thre< 
children,  walking  along  the  little  stream,  at  the  distan 
bend  of  which  was  situated  the  factory.  One  might  hav< 
seen  the  same  little  procession  wending  its  way  home  a 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      293 

six-thirty  in  the  evening.  At  home  a  supper  awaited 
them,  prepared  by  old  Gombarov  himself — " 

"My  God !  My  God !"  broke  in  Douglass  at  this  point. 
His  face  expressed  utter  amazement.  "Is  it  possible? 
Is  it  possible?  How  are  the  mighty  fallen!" 

Gombarov's  nonchalant  face  smiled  a  little  smile,  which 
seemed  to  say :  "That's  nothing !  Be  prepared  for  what 
is  coming."  Then  his  face  hardened  again,  but  his  heart 
fought  with  it  for  mastery.  Gombarov  however  did  not 
betray  himself.  His  eyes  were  still,  his  lips  were  the 
only  part  of  him  that  moved,  his  words  came  measured, 
in  monotone.  It  was  as  if  not  a  live  man  were  speaking 
but  a  statue.  Quite  suddenly  the  truth  dawned  upon 
Douglass :  Gombarov  was  speaking  in  that  distant  de 
tached  way  of  his  own  childhood  and  the  life  of  the 
Gombarovs,  keeping  up  the  fable  of  the  third  person,  in 
order  to  avoid  the  sense  of  intimacy,  in  order  to  be  able 
to  speak  of  the  matter  at  all.  His  plasticity  was  a  dyke 
which  prevented  a  too  emotional  outburst,  kept  back  the 
tears  which  must  have  raged  and  seethed  in  his  breast. 
With  this  the  thought  came  to  Douglass  that  he  beheld 
a  man  who  gave  the  lie  to  the  prevalent  idea  that  man 
and  artist  could  not  be  contained  in  one  person.  So 
successfully,  he  thought,  were  the  two  merged  in  Gom 
barov  that  it  was  hard  to  tell  where  one  ended  and  the 
other  began. 

"Vanya's  stepfather  had  other  occupations,"  resumed 
Gombarov.  "Among  other  things  he  constructed  with 
his  own  hands  a  new  style  of  incubator,  and  began  to 
breed  chickens.  These  he  attended  with  the  help  of  his 
younger  children.  But  the  great  subject  which  held  his 
attention  was  altogether  a  new  one.  This  time  he  had 
outlined  a  project  for  a  colossal  book.  Its  theme  was  to 
be  the  comparative  cultures  of  the  world  from  ancient 
times  until  ours,  and  was  to  include  every  aspect  of  the 
theme,  whether  religion,  politics,  ethics,  jurisprudence, 


294  THE  MASK 

art  or  literature.  That  was  ostensibly  the  object  of  his 
proposed  book,  but  at  the  back  of  his  mind  was  the  idea 
that  Oriental  culture  was  as  superior  to  the  European  as 
Jewish  culture  was  superior  to  the  other  Oriental  cul 
tures.  He  had  a  considerable  library  of  books  in  several 
languages  which  he  had  brought  over  with  him  from 
Russia,  to  which  he  had  added  not  a  few  since  his  arrival. 
He  pored  over  these  in  his  leisure  time,  and  marked  them 
with  profuse  marginal  notes.  In  addition  to  this  he 
used  to  read  the  newspapers,  and  when  he  ran  across 
some  enlightening  item  on  the  life  and  thought  of  the 
day,  he  would  cut  it  out  and  put  it  away  carefully  among 
his  notes.  There  were  extraordinary  bits  among  these. 
It  might  have  been  about  a  woman  who  had  divorced  her 
husband  because  he  made  a  noise  eating  soup,— 'that 
could  happen  only  among  the  goyim'  (Gentiles)  he  would 
say;  it  might  have  been  some  notorious  case  in  which  a 
Jewish  usurer  was  concerned — 'in  what  way,'  he  would 
remark,  'is  usury  worse  than  the  Gentile  invention  of 
watered  stock  with  its  hundred  per  cent  dividends  for 
its  rascally  promoters?  In  what  way  are  the  trust  kings' 
profits  any  more  legitimate?  But  it  seems  that  usury 
becomes  legitimate  when  it  is  done  on  a  large  scale  and 
under  another  name.'  Or  it  might  have  been  a  new 
case  of  blood  accusation  in  Russia.  'What  should  the 
Jews  want  Christian  blood  in  their  matsoth,  when  it  isn't 
kosher?'  In  the  midst  of  these  perusals  of  the  news 
paper  he  would  give  a  sudden  chuckle  or  laugh — well, 
they  say  Heine  did  the  same  when  on  his  mattress 
grave  he  was  writing  his  book  on  the  Hohenzollerns, 
which  unfortunately  never  saw  the  light  of  day." 

"What  a  man!"  exclaimed  Douglass,  "how  you  must 
all  have  hated  him." 

"Yes,  that  is  quite  true,  we  all  hated  him  for  not  being 
like  other  fathers."  It  was  the  first  time  that  Gom- 
barov  used  "we,"  but  he  quickly  corrected  himself.  "How 


TWO  YEARS,  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      295 

they  all  did  hate  him !  I  told  you  about  the  suppers  he 
used  to  prepare.  These  usually  consisted  of  some  rice 
boiled  with  a  bone.  As,  sometimes  the  bone  was  lacking, 
the  result  was  an  almost  tasteless  mixture.  Vanya  was 
the  first  to  revolt.  One  evening  when  he  returned  home 
from  a  long  day's  work,  and  the  soup  was  placed  before 
him,  rather  more  thin  and  watery  than  usual,  he  tasted 
it,  and,  putting  down  the  spoon,  made  a  wry  face.  Some 
thing  struggled  within  him.  He  was  afraid  he  would 
burst  if  he  did  not  say  something.  All  his  feelings 
surged  towards  his  throat.  He  did  not  care  what  hap 
pened.  At  last  he  spoke: 

'"I  am  sick  of  this  stuff!' 

"A  quiet  fell  upon  the  table.  Every  one  stopped  eat 
ing,  in  expectation  of  something.  Gombarova  was  rather 
more  frightened  than  the  rest.  Vanya  sat  in  a  kind  of 
stupor,  pale.  Gombarov  glared  across  the  table  at  him, 
with  blazing  eyes.  Presently  his  words  clove  the  storm- 
laden  atmosphere  like  lightning: 

"  'If  you  don't  like  that  fine  dish,  then  don't  eat  it.' 

"Vanya  pushed  the  plate  away  from  him.  Then  he 
rose,  from  his  place,  got  as  far  as  the  door,  and  shouted : 

"'Go  to  hell!' 

"Then,  slamming  the  door,  he  walked  out. 

"Old  Gombarov  was  in  a  rage.  'He  shall  leave  the 
house,  and  at  once !'  he  cried. 

"In  the  meantime  Vanya  walked  slowly  into  the  cool 
of  the  woods,  which  were  near  by,  and  began  to  think 
hard.  He  knew  what  his  stepfather  would  say,  and  he 
tried  to  come  to  a  decision.  If  it  came  to  the  worst  he 
would  go  back  to  town,  sell  papers  once  more,  and  sleep 
in  the  old  corridor  as  he  did  during  the  week  of  his 
lonely  stay  before.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  the 
rooms  to  which  the  corridor  was  attached  might  be  let 
by  now.  And  he  was  a  little  afraid.  Besides,  his  mother 
would  cry  her  eyes  out.  He  was  afraid  for  himself,  and 


296  THE  MASK 

he  was  sorry  for  his  mother.  He  did  not  care  whether 
he  saw  his  stepfather  again  or  not.  He  felt  a  thousand 
years  old  and  he  was  sick  of  life.  He  thought  of  other 
children  and  envied  them  their  fathers.  And  again,  and 
again,  he  asked  himself  the  question :  Why  did  he  feel 
so  different  from  other  children  ?  Was  it  his  stepfather's 
fault,  or  was  the  fault  in  himself?  But  whether  it  was 
one  or  the  other,  it  led  to  the  same  thought :  he  wished 
he  were  dead. 

"While  he  was  in  the  midst  of  these  thoughts,  he  heard 
rapid  footsteps  coming  nearer ;  he  knew  that  his  mother 
had  sent  for  him,  he  knew  that  she  would.  He  wanted 
very  much  to  be  sent  for,  at  the  same  time  he  would  pre 
tend  that  he  did  not  want  to  come.  Perhaps  he  was  like 
other  children  in  this  respect.  He  also  knew  that  Dunya 
would  be  chosen  for  this  task.  Dunya  had  a  way  about 
her,  even  old  Gombarov  liked  her  better  than  he  did  his 
own  children. 

"Well,  Dunya  came  up  presently.  Without  saying  a 
word  she,  first  of  all,  wiped  his  tears  from  his  eyes,  with 
her  handkerchief. 

"  'Come,  come/  she  said,  'you've  made  mother  cry/ 

"  'I  don't  care,'  he  replied  petulantly,  'I  hate  him,  and 
I'm  going  to  run  away  from  home/ 

"  'We  all  hate  him,  but  remember,'  she  said,  ignoring 
his  threat,  'you  made  mother  cry.'  But  two  years  older 
than  he,  she  was  a  little  woman  compared  to  him,  and 
had  learnt  that  in  the  case  of  the  other  sex  you  had  to 
play  on  their  weakness  rather  than  their  strength.  She 
knew  that  he  was  stubborn  but  that  his  heart  always 
melted  at  the  sight  of  tears,  a  fact  that  other  women 
were  to  take  advantage  of  in  the  coming  years  with  less 
scruple,  and  worse  intention. 

"He,  on  his  part,  was  wrapt  in  the  thought:  Why 
can't  one  hurt  some  one  whom  one  wants  to  hurt,  without 
hurting  another  whom  one  does  not  want  to  hurt  ?  Why 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      297 

could  not  one  do  anything  without  hurting  so  many  other 
people?  He  already  had  seen  how  his  stepfather's  life 
was  affecting  the  lives  of  all  of  them.  He  realized  no 
less  how  his  own  action  of  that  evening  affected  the  peace 
of  the  family.  For  an  instant  or  two  he  felt  a  curious 
satisfaction  at  this.  After  all,  he  was  not  without  some 
power.  But  as  soon  as  he  thought  of  their  tears,  his 
weakness  prevailed,  and  he  clenched  his  teeth  together 
to  keep  from  crying.  He  stopped  before  a  young  birch, 
and  clung  to  it.  His  arms  around  it,  he  stretched  himself 
into  a  rigid  posture,  remaining  thus  a  long  time.  He  was 
now  a  young  sapling,  and  his  young  heart  began  to 
tighten  into  a  knot.  Dunya  stood  there,  one  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  the  other  patting  his  head. 

'  'Come,  come/  she  said  coaxingly,  'mother  is  waiting 
for  you.' 

"Somewhat  unwillingly  he  released  his  hold  of  the 
tree,  and  began  to  walk  slowly  homewards,  Dunya's  arm 
around  him.  Why  could  not  people  be  as  happy  as  in  a 
fairy  tale?  Was  his  stepfather  the  terrible  ogre  who 
stood  in  their  way?  Then  the  insinuating  thought  came 
to  him :  he  was  a  little  sorry  for  his  stepfather  too. 
Why  should  he  feel  sorry  for  him?  That  was  hard  to 
say,  unless  it  was  that  he  was  so  sorry  for  everyone, 
and  such  a  flood  of  pity  welled  in  his  heart,  that  it  could 
not  help  but  take  in  his  father  also.  Still,  he  was  proud 
and  stubborn,  and  he  would  not  admit  to  anyone  in  the 
world  that  he  was  sorry.  For  all  his  pity,  that  knot  re 
mained,  and  not  all  the  rapid  waters  of  pity  could  dis 
solve  or  dislodge  it.  Only  in  later  years  he  realized  that 
it  was  precisely  this  detestable  little  knot  that  kept  him 
afloat  as  he  was  borne  along  on  the  torrent  of  life,  and 
enabled  him  to  meet  all  the  misfortunes  he  was  yet  to 
endure. 

"His  mother  was  waiting  for  him  somewhat  away 
from  the  house.  Without  saying  a  word,  she  snatched 


298  THE  MASK 

him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  into  the  house  by  the  back 
way.  As  the  house  stood  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  and  as  the 
back  of  the  house  was  at  the  upper  end  of  it,  Vanya 
found  himself  in  the  children's  bedroom,  just  over  the 
dining  room.  Through  a  hole  in  the  floor  he  could  hear 
his  stepfather  raging  in  the  room  below. 

"  'Things  have  come  to  a  pretty  pass  when  children  no 
longer  respect  their  parents.  There's  Western  culture 
for  you!' 

"John's  stepfather  had  got  into  that  comfortable  frame 
of  mind  when  he  was  ready  to  saddle  every  new  misfor 
tune  on  the  sufficiently  strong  back  of  Western  culture. 
Like  every  man  who  possessed  a  sense  of  humour,  he  had 
at  least  one  subject  which  was  totally  immune  to  it.  His 
resentment  against  small  innocent  Vanya  had  turned  for 
the  while  on  a  more  formidable  target. 

"  'What  can  you  think  of  a  race  which  respects  a 
prophet  who  says  that  "parents  are  their  children's  first 
enemies"  ?' 

"John's  ear,  glued  to  the  hole  in  the  floor,  was  like  the 
open  fertile  ground  ready  to  receive  the  seed.  That  last 
remark  kept  turning  over  in  the  boy's  young  brain,  and 
not  exactly  in  a  way  that  would  have  pleased  his  step 
father.  His  as  yet  inarticulate  feeling  struggled  for  ex 
pression;  could  it  have  expressed  itself  at  the  moment  it 
would  have  said :  'Then  there  is  someone  on  my  side, 
after  all.'  Not  that  he  had  gathered  the  full  profundity 
of  Stendhal's  mot.  His  grievance,  against  them,  his  par 
ents,  was  quite  simple.  He  felt  himself  denied  all  those 
needs  which  every  child  instinctively  feels  as  his  natural 
right:  nourishing  food,  sleep,  sunlight,  play,  affection; 
and  when  these  are  denied  a  child  he  is  sure  to  turn  upon 
the  nearest  authors  of  his  misfortunes.  His  stepfather's 
quotation  gave  him  a  vague  and  yet  definite  pleasure. 
The  strength  of  this  feeling  lay  indeed  in  its  vagueness, 
for  nothing  has  such  hold  of  us  as  the  thoughts  and  feel- 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      299 

ings  whose  roots  are  planted  to  wholly  reveal  their 
hold.  So  there  was  someone  after  all,  somewhere, 
who  understood  him;  and  he  was  a  stranger,  he 
did  not  even  know  his  name.  That  was  the  important 
fact.  Did  he  then  hate  his  mother?  No,  he  pitied  her 
as  he  pitied  himself,  as  he  pitied  the  others.  She  too  was 
a  helpless  child  in  his  hands.  Still,  he  was  critical.  Why 
had  she  allowed  this  man  to  waste  the  funds  entrusted 
by  his  father  and  intended  partly  for  his,  Raya's  and 
Dunya's  education  ?  To  make  matters  worse,  he  saw  his 
mother,  Raya  and  Dunya  and  himself  all  working  to  keep 
his  stepfather  and  his  half-brothers  and  sisters  alive. 
He  was  not  too  young  to  know  that  here  was  a  pretty 
state  of  affairs !  The  injustice  of  it  held  his  heart  as  in 
a  vise.  In  his  sulky  moments  he  was  resentful,  he  felt 
that  he  bore  his  mother  a  grudge  for  marrying  his 
stepfather. 

"The  real  wonder  was  that  there  was  any  feeling  left 
at  all  in  the  boy.  Perhaps,  apart  from  his  too  large  store 
of  pity,  which  is  love  in  the  abstract,  and  transcendent — 
because  it  takes  in  all  things,  including  relatives  who 
happen  to  be  in  physical  proximity — Vanya  had  actually 
no  real  personal  affection,  at  any  rate  at  the  time,  for  his 
mother.  After  all,  personal  affection  is  not  so  much  a 
matter  of  blood.  And  the  proof  of  this  was  that  Vanya's 
own  father,  removed  at  the  time  five  thousand  miles  in 
the  matter  of  space  and  ten  years  in  the  matter  of  time, 
aroused  no  emotion  in  Vanya,  or  even  in  his  sisters, 
except  perhaps  curiosity,  and  occasionally  a  mood  of 
abstract  resentment.  Blood  may  be  thicker  than  water, 
but  the  foolishness  of  some  proverb  makers  is  surely 
thicker  than  treacle.  Well,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  that 
'Honour  thy  father  and  mother'  commandment  was  a 
special  tribal  invention  devised  for  the  protection  of 
parents  from  the  natural  wrath  of  their  children.  The 
original  State  was  the  family,  with  the  patriarchal  father 


300  THE  MASK 

as  its  head.  Children  are  quick  to  feel  that  their  parents 
have  failed  them,  and  it  is  natural  that  they  should  be 
provoked  to  rebellion  not  unlike  the  rebellion  of  a  people 
against  an  unworthy  king.  At  all  events,  Vanya  was 
miserable  as  a  child,  because  justice,  although  he  did  not 
know  it,  was  already  a  passion  with  him,  and  his  equally 
passionate  pity  was  in  clash  with  it.  At  odd  moments 
he  had  already  begun  to  realize  that  he  had  a  battle 
with  three  adversaries :  the  world,  his  family,  and  him 
self.  That  was  the  great  trouble  with  him  :  he  loved  the 
world  and  he  hated  it,  he  loved  his  family  and  he  hated 
it,  he  loved  himself  and  he  hated  himself. 

"Lying  there  with  his  ear  to  the  floor,  John's  heart 
now  hardened  into  a  knot,  now  relaxed  into  a  fluid 
warmth,  as  if  blood  were  slowly  oozing  from  a  piece  of 
hemp  rope.  A  warmth  filled  him  to  the  very  tips  of  his 
toes,  as  upon  that  night  when  he  fell  and  lay  in  the  snow, 
and  he  began  to  sob  softly,  calling  upon  God  and  the 
invisible  angels  to  come  and  help  him.  He  heard  no 
one  come  in,  but  suddenly  felt  some  one  touch  his 
shoulder. 

"  'Vanya  darling,  John  darling,'  he  heard  his  mother's 
voice,  Tve  brought  you  something.' 

"Vanya  did  not  stir.  He  was  too  sad,  and  overcome 
with  the  sense  of  his  struggle.  Besides,  he  wanted  to  be 
coaxed. 

"  'Here,  John  darling,'  repeated  his  mother,  'I've  got 
something  very  nice  for  you.' 

"After  several  refusals,  during  which  his  mother  kept 
stroking  his  hair,  he  raised  his  head  and  opened  his 
eyes.  He  found  himself  gazing  at  a  piece  of  steak, 
well  smothered  in  onions,  the  sudden  smell  of  which  took 
his  palate  and  nostrils  by  storm.  He  felt  quite  hungry : 
thus  does  nature  reassert  itself  over  the  nobler  passions. 
Nevertheless  he  did  not  enjoy  his  meal  as  he  might  have 
done.  With  every  bite  came  the  realization :  his  mother 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      301 

had  gone  out  to  borrow  this  piece  of  meat  from  a  neigh 
bour;  again,  he  was  the  only  one,  the  others  had  done 
without  it.  His  mother,  quick  to  see  his  reluctance, 
urged  him  to  eat  it  quickly : 

"  'If  Gombarov  knew/  she  said,  'he  would  throw  this 
out  of  the  window.' 

"Gombarova  had  to  use  all  her  tact  to  soothe  one  and 
the  other,  to  bring  about  a  truce  between ,  them.  She 
knew  that  her  lord  and  master  was  quite  capable  of 
sending  Vanya  away  from  home.  She  resorted  to  an 
old  weapon :  the  intervention  of  the  new  unborn  .  .  .  ' 

Douglass  was  on  the  point  of  interrupting  in  order  to 
express  his  indignation  against  old  Gombarov's  careless 
tendency  to  procreate  children  at  other  people's  expense, 
but  subsided  at  a  gesture  on  the  part  of  the  speaker,  who 
went  on : 

"Yes,  it  was  not  long  before  Gombarova  had  to  stop 
work.  Another  child  was  born  to  her — a  little  girl,  who 
was  named  Margaret,  an  unusual  name  in  the  family, 
in  that  it  was  a  concession  to  the  other  children's  demand 
for  Americanization.  The  father's  suggestion  was  over 
ruled  :  he  wanted  to  name  her  Naomi.  John  was  now 
approaching  his  fifteenth  year,  he  was  old  enough  to 
understand  that  every  newcomer  meant  so  much  extra 
ballast  for  him,  Raya  and  Dunya  to  bear,  an  extra  fetter 
keeping  them  in  subjection,  and  he  was  not  without 
certain  bitterness  against  his  stepfather  and  his  mother, 
which,  however,  did  not  prevent  pleasant  relations  be 
tween  him  and  the  new  little  one. 

"John's  education  during  those  two  years  had  been 
almost  wholly  neglected.  He  had  hardly  looked  into  a 
book.  The  Encyclopedia  was  a  bore;  he  soon  realized 
that  he  had  bought  it  chiefly  for  his  stepfather's  use; 
owing  to  the  irregularity  of  his  payments  the  company 
more  than  once  threatened  to  take  away  the  books.  And 
being  too  far  away  from  the  city,  he  was  unable  to  make 


302  THE  MASK 

use  of  the  free  library;  he  looked  back  on  his  town  days, 
when  he  devoured  Dumas  and  Verne,  with  intense  regret. 
His  knowledge  of  English  was  still  limited.  His  thoughts 
were  slow,  he  spoke  in  stammers,  especially  with  stran 
gers  ;  and  one  spring  day,  feeling  ill  and  feverish,  he  made 
the  ludicrous  mistake  of  asking  for  a  day  off  because  he 
had  the  spring  fever! 

"It  is  true  his  relations  with  the  boys  had  somewhat 
improved,  but  this  was  largely  due  to  his  entering  into 
combats  with  them  with  fists.  He  got  bested  as  often 
as  he  bested  others.  He  never  had  any  joy  in  this,  and 
always  fought  unwillingly.  But  when  it  came  to  wres 
tling,  much  to  his  own  surprise  he  could  handle  any  boy 
his  size.  What  gained  him,  however,  the  respect  of  the 
boys  was  his  part  in  the  football  games  they  played 
during  the  lunch  hour.  They  soon  discovered  that  when 
the  ball  was  passed  to  him  he  was  always  sure  to  advance 
it  some  distance.  There  was  always  excitement  among 
the  onlookers  when  he  was  in  the  game.  They  cried :  Tass 
the  ball  to  Simon,'  or  'Watch  Simon,'  or  'Watch  South 
Street' !  Both  these  references  were,  as  you  may  guess, 
to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  Jew.  South  Street  was  the 
chief  street  in  the  Philadelphia  ghetto.  But  these  names 
no  longer  had  the  sting  with  which  they  were  at  first 
invested.  For  the  boys  had  a  tenderness  for  his  prowess. 
On  one  occasion,  when  the  boss  was  away,  the  working 
men  goaded  him  into  fighting  a  Jewish  boy.  Now,  that 
was  something  like  fun  for  them!  To  see  a  Gentile 
pummeling  a  Jew  was  a  natural  and  desirable  thing;  to 
see  a  Jew  pummeling  a  Gentile  was  both  unnatural  and 
undesirable ;  to  see  a  Jew  pummeling  a  Jew  presented  the 
unusual  combination  of  being  unnatural  and  highly  de 
sirable.  The  astonishing  contest  lasted  a  full  hour,  and 
would  have  lasted  longer  but  for  the  fact  that  the  look 
out  near  the  window  reported  the  approach  of  the  fore 
man.  The  reason  for  the  battle  lasting  so  long  was 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      303 

curious.  After  ten  minutes  of  fierce  fighting,  which 
highly  delighted  the  crowd,  both  gladiators  drew  blood. 
Although  neither  was  very  much  hurt,  and  Vanya  had 
slightly  the  best  of  it,  being  Jews,  the  sight  of  blood  was 
fatal  to  both.  Goaded  on  by  the  crowd,  who  aroused 
their  pride,  they  went  on  fighting,  but  only  with  a  half 
heart,  each  hitting  the  other  perfunctory  blows,  each 
showing  on  his  face  a  perfunctory  and  unchanging  smile, 
which  revealed  neither  hate  nor  anger,  if  anything  pity 
for  one  another  and  the  sense  of  performing  an  un 
pleasant  and  unnecessary  duty. 

"But  there  is  a  conscience  in  individuals  if  there  is 
none  in  a  crowd,  for  not  long  afterwards  an  Irish  boy 
fell  ill,  and  it  soon  became  known  in  the  factory  that  in 
the  delirium  of  typhus  he  raved  most  about  the  injustice 
done  to  John.'' 

There  were  many  other  experiences,  during  those  two 
years'  stay  at  Shoddy  Hill,  concerning  which  John  Gom- 
barov  told  Douglass.  John's  tribulations  did  not  stop 
with  his  battle  with  his  stepfather's  growing  family,  or 
with  the  outer  world  and  all  its  pitiless  circumstances. 
His  greatest  battle,  only  beginning,  was  with  himself, 
or  rather  with  that  potent  part  of  himself  which  is 
natural  to  every  healthy  boy,  and  which  the  virtuous 
eunuchs  of  our  civilization  either  regard  with  envy  or 
are  not  in  a  position  to  understand. 

"How  can  a  child,"  observed  John  Gombarov,  "be 
understood  in  our  puritanic  civilization,  composed  chief 
ly  of  ascetics,  nay-sayers,  self-deniers,  voluptuaries  of 
the  spirit,  vegetarians,  Savanorolians,  Christian  scien 
tists,  non-conformists,  raucous-voiced  hymn-singers, 
flesh-despisers,  self-sacrificers,  other-sacrificers,  prohibi 
tionists,  joy-haters,  sun-haters,  live-mummy  lovers,  sleep- 
aloners,  bread-and-water  repasters,  obsessionists,  abnega- 
tors,  virgin-worshippers,  eye-shutters " 


304  THE  MASK 

"Enough !"  laughed  Douglass,  "I  know  the  list.  Even 
in  a  happier  age  than  this,  our  Shakespeare  addressed 
himself  to  these  through  Sir  Toby's  mouth :  'Doth  thou 
think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more 
cakes  and  ale  ?" 

"Yes,  that's  just  it.  They  won't  enjoy  life  themselves, 
and  they  won't  let  others  enjoy  it.  The  terrible  thing 
about  it  is  that  their  own  peculiar  mania  has  become  an 
obsession  with  them.  Look  at  the  vegetarians.  They 
get  into  a  state  where  their  one  ambition  is  to  eat  vege 
tables!  I  have  seen  vegetarian  parents  sacrifice  their 
Isaacs  to  the  god  of  vegetables.  It  is  true,  you  cannot 
develop  much  passion  on  carrot  stews  and  peasoup. 
Anaemia  is  the  mother  of  virtue,  but  is  not  a  virtue  in 
itself.  But  I  am  digressing.  I  was  beginning  to  tell  you 
about  Vanya,  and  the  awakening  of  the  man  in  him." 

Vanya's  knowledge  of  sex,  Gombarov  went  on  to  say, 
consisted  first  of  all  of  what  he  had  learned  more  or 
less  perfunctorily  from  his  Hebrew  lessons — of  Adam's 
sin,  of  Onan's  sin,  of  the  sin  of  Lot's  daughters,  of  the 
sin  of  Ham  in  looking  upon  the  nakedness  of  his  father; 
secondly,  he  grew  familiar  with  the  logical  sequence  of 
those  well-known  terms  with  which  the  Book  is  so  gen 
erously  seasoned :  the  knowing,  the  conceiving,  and  the 
begetting;  thirdly,  there  was  the  profane  talk  of  the 
boys  and  girls  which  went  on  without  cease  in  the  fac 
tory,  things  he  could  not  help  but  hear;  fourthly,  there 
were  the  writings  and  the  drawings  he  saw  marked  up 
on  the  walls  of  the  city  and  the  village  and  in  the  factory 
itself;  fifthly,  there  were  his  own  feelings,  strange  to 
him  then  and  inexplicable,  vague  broodings  and  clear 
imaginings,  mental  picturings  of  feminine  nakedness, 
the  importunity  of  his  shameful  desire  upon  seeing  a  j 
woman  or  a  girl  sitting  cross-legged  to  throw  himself 
down  on  the  carpet  and  to  watch  stealthily  the  contour  of  | 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      305 

her  leg,  the  not  less  shameful  allurement  of  a  bit  of  ex 
posed  lace  on  a  feminine  under-garment,  the  intense  mys 
tery  of  it  all  aroused  his  curiosity  to  an  extent  that  quite 
eclipsed  his  shame;  sixthly,  he  once  saw  .  .  .  but  it  is 
better  not  to  tell  you  what  he  saw.  Yet  he  was  very  shy, 
and  the  presence  of  a  girl  or  woman,  not  of  his  own 
family,  embarrassed  him,  and  made  him  blush,  which 
caused  his  sisters  to  laugh  at  him  and  to  tease  him. 
Sometimes  they  would  bring  in  a  girl  of  their  acquaint 
ance,  whoj  seeing  the  boy's  shyness  and  embarrassment, 
would  act  very  forwardly,  after  the  manner  of  women, 
and  would  seat  herself  in  seductive  poses;  all  his  feelings, 
all  his  shame,  would  be  aroused,  he  would  blush  and 
tremble  most  violently;  he  wished  he  had  the  courage  to 
approach  this  girl,  lay  hands  on  her,  kiss  her,  play  games 
with  her,  chase  her  round  a  tree,  he  wanted  to  hear  her 
laugh  and  scream,  to  see  her  skirts  in  a  rumpus  as  she  ran 
from  him.  He  felt  an  intense  shame  at  his  own  shame, 
for  he  had  seen  other  boys  act  boldly  and  almost  un 
concernedly  in  similar  circumstances,  and  he  envied  them. 
He  stood  there  flushing,  not  daring  to  approach  his  tor 
mentor.  His  stepfather,  passing  through  the  room,  sized 
up  the  situation  and  said,  laughing,  to  the  boy:  "Kiss 
;her!"  This  only  all  the  more  embarrassed  him.  The 
[girl  laughed  at  him.  But,  like  most  members  of  her  sex, 
[young  as  she  was,  she  was  resourceful. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "I'll  wrestle  you." 

He  hesitated. 

"You  are  afraid,"  she  taunted  him,  "you  know  I  am 
Lronger  than  you." 

"You  are  afraid,"  joined  in  Dunya. 

"I  am  not,"  asserted  John,  gathering  courage.  'Til 
[show  you  who  is  stronger." 

He  made  a  rush  for  the  girl.  His  arms  grimly  around 
ter  waist,  there  was  a  tussle.  Her  arms  around  his 
loulders,  she  fought  vigorously,  uttering  cries  of  smoth- 


306  THE  MASK 

ered  laughter.  Determined  to  best  her,  he  quite  forgot 
her  sex,  and  he  seized  her  where  it  was  most  convenient, 
wherever  his  hands  happened  to  fall,  as  if  she  were  a 
boy.  Receiving  more  than  she  bargained  for,  she  sud 
denly  put  out  her  leg,  and  tripped  him  up.  Falling,  he 
carried  her  with  him,  and  she  fell  on  top  of  him.  He  was 
struggling  under  her,  trying  to  extricate  himself,  when 
he  suddenly  became  conscious  of  her  flushed  face,  her 
dishevelled  hair,  the  closeness  of  her  body.  At  the  same 
moment  he  heard  her  gasp :  "You  are  not  at  all  nice." 

His  own  realization  and  this  sudden  reminder  left  him 
helpless.  Shame  and  desire,  as  bitter  as  they  were  sweet, 
as  vague  as  they  were  definite,  wrestled  in  him  for 
ascendancy ;  he  let  her  go. 

She  jumped  up  quickly.  He  watched  her  shaking  her 
self,  he  watched  her  arrange  her  clothes  and  her  hair. 

"You  were  unfair,"  he  cried,  rising  also.  "You  tripped 
me  up." 

"I  didn't!"  she  exclaimed.    "I'm  stronger  than  you." 

He  still  felt  ashamed  and  flushed,  and  he  was  aston 
ished  at  how  quickly  she  recovered  her  composure,  and 
at  the  bold  and  convinced  tone  of  her  denial. 

When  he  recalled  the  episode  in  later  years,  and  his 
words  to  the  girl  and  her  reply  to  his  words,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  it  were  all  some  ancient  and  eternal  refrain, 
which  began  with  Adam  and  Eve,  when  confronted  by 
God  after  the  fatal  apple  episode,  and  which  recurred 
again  and  again  in  his  life,  as  in  other  lives,  not  unlike 
the  recurring  pattern  on  a  serpent's  back. 

"'You  were  unfair,  and  you  tripped  me  up!' — there 
you  have  the  ripe  tenor  of  the  eternal  masculine,"  John 
Gombarov  would  say.  'No,  I  did  not,  I  am  stronger 
than  you!' — there's  your  natural  soprano  part  in  this; 
universal  duet.  Frail  woman,  to  combat  man's  honesty 
and  superior  strength,  has  invented  a  kind  of  mental 
jiujitsu,  which  sometimes  takes  the  form  of  tears,  some- 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      307 

times  subtlety,  sometimes  downright  lying,  but  usually  all 
three  combined.  Who  knows  whether  Eve  had  not 
libelled  the  serpent,  twisted  the  serpent's  words,  or  per 
haps  even  invented  the  whole  tale.  After  all,  if  the  ser 
pent  was  as  subtle  as  the  Book  says,  he  wouldn't  have 
been  so  foolish  as  to  divulge  an  important  diplomatic 
secret  to  a  woman  and  risk  losing  his  head — I  mean  his 
feet — for  it,  and  having  to  creep  on  his  belly  all  his 
life." 

"You  are  a  misogynist,"  protested  Douglass.  "You 
must  admit  there  are  good  women,  even  ideal  women." 

"Now  don't  stand  up  on  your  hind  legs,"  said  Gom- 
barov  trying  to  mollify  his  friend.  "I  think  I  am  in 
love  myself.  Good  women  there  undoubtedly  are;  as  for 
ideal  women,  they  exist  chiefly  in  men's  minds.  The 
ideal  woman  is  born  in  a  young  man's  fancy,  she  dies 
in  an  old  man's  dying  mind.  When  a  man  seeks  out  an 
object  for  his  affection  it  is  to  attach  her,  and  adorn  her, 
with  all  the  charms  and  virtues  preconceived  and  ex 
istent  in  his  mind,  but  rarely  is  man  so  fortunate  as  to 
find  a  woman  upon  whom  these  will  fit  like  a  well-made 
garment,  as  upon  the  'admired  Miranda' : 

'  for  several  virtues 

Have  I  liked  several  women;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed, 
And  put  it  to  the  foils:  but  you,  O  you, 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created, 
Of  every  creature's  best!' 

And  Miranda  was  an  invented  creature  of  a  great  man's 
last  work!  It  is  this  creature  living  at  the  back  of 
every  man's  mind  who  has  made  more  cynics  in  this 
world  than  any  other  thing.  But  the  poet,  denied  his  de 
sire  in  life,  has  poured  himself  into  his  plays  and  poems, 


308  THE  MASK 

the  sculptor  into  his  statues,  the  painter  into  his  pictures. 
If  men  were  granted  their  desire  there  would  be  no  art. 
For  dreams  and  art  are  always  the  expression  of  a  man's 
desire.  That  wall  of  Del  Sarto's  was  left  bare  in  heaven 
because  Del  Sarto  had  had  his  desire  on  earth." 

In  his  characteristic  manner  Gombarov  brought  the 
subject  back  to  John. 

"For  it  is  a  curious  thing,"  he  went  on,  "even  Jphn, 
young  though  he  was,  sensual  though  he  was — perhaps 
because  he  was  young  and  sensual — had,  together  with 
his  sensual  imaginings,  already  begun  to  have  glimmer 
ings,  as  yet  vague,  of  what  you,  as  a  painter,  would  call 
the  'ideal  woman/  In  a  strange  way,  she  appeared  to 
him,  by  day  and  by  night,  in  dream  and  in  day  dream, 
as  out  of  clouds  of  mist,  clearly  outlined  yet  indefinable, 
pale  and  lovely,  curiously  sensual  yet  refined,  like  Nad- 
ezhda  Vassilyevna,  the  governess  he  remembered  from 
his  early  childhood  days  in  that  now  dreamlike  house 
bordering  on  a  fairy  wood.  Why  should  this  creature 
have  appeared  to  him,  by  what  process  of  becoming  did 
she  come  to  rise  out  of  the  depths  of  his  consciousness  as 
Aphrodite  rose  from  the  sea?  Was  she  the  natural 
product  of  an  unconscious  evolving  of  seeds  planted  on 
the  fertile  and  impressionable  soil  of  his  being  by  his 
reading  of  fairy  princesses  and  of  heroines  of  fiction,  the 
natural  flower  of  gestating  fancy?  Or  was  she  some 
persistent  hereditary  memory  come  down  through  the 
generations,  choosing  him  to  pause  in,  to  gather  herself 
in,  to  concentrate  her  deliberate  force  before  she  should 
have  again  resumed  her  tireless,  endless  journey?  Or 
was  she  the  ultimate  and  flawless  mask  of  feminine  per 
fection  come  to  him  because  his  sensitiveness  had  evoked 
her,  called  her  to  him,  commanded  her  to  his  presence  in 
order  that  he  might  find  relief  from  his  every-day  life, 
every-day  troubles?  Or  was  she  come  to  combat  that 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      309 

other  creature,  the  obscene,  sensual  one,  whose  visita 
tions  were  becoming  more  frequent  and  more  trouble 
some?  It  was  hard  to  tell,  even  looking  backward,  by 
what  unconscionable  processes,  by  what  manner  of  incan 
tation,  by  what  cunning  mystery,  she  came,  why  and 
whence  she  came,  and  whither  she  went." 

A  strange  thing  happened  one  night  He  lay  on  his 
mattress  on  the  floor  and  could  not  sleep.  It  was  a  moon 
lit  night,  and  as  the  Gombarovs  could  not  afford  blinds, 
the  full  moon  poured  in  her  light  in  a  passionate  flow 
into  the  room.  The  objects  in  the  room  looked  myster 
ious;  the  pale-faced  sleepers,  Raya  and  Dunya  and  Absa 
lom,  appeared  like  beings  of  another  world.  John's  body, 
tired  from  the  day's  work,  turned  from  side  to  side,  while 
his  mind,  alive  with  the  turmoil  of  the  day's  events,  felt 
as  acutely  restless  in  all  that  quiet  enchantment,  remi 
niscent  of  death,  as  an  active  darting  fish  in  the  still,  clear 
waters  of  a  bewitched  lake.  That  very  day  that  he  had 
wrestled  with  the  little  minx,  his  sister's  friend,  and  now 
once  more  she  appeared  to  him,  as  at  the  moment  when 
he  released  her,  with  flushed  face  and  dishevelled  hair, 
her  clothes  in  sweet  disorder;  she  looked  at  him  with  a 
reproach  she  did  not  mean,  and  she  said  to  him :  "You 
;are  not  at  all  nice."  What  did  she  mean  by  it?  He 
Iknew,  or  rather  he  felt,  that  she  meant  something  by  it. 
Had  she  then  guessed  his  thoughts  ?  How  could  he  help 
his  thoughts?  He  knew  he  was  evil  to  want  to  peep 
through  a  key-hole,  to  want  to  see  her  as  she  looked  be 
fore  retiring  at  night ;  to  want  to  hide  behind  the  bushes 
as  she  took  a  dip  in  the  swimming  pond — none  were  so 
evil  as  he  in  this  world.  But  whether  evil  or  not,  his 
thoughts  took  no  heed  of  his  reflections;  with  reckless 
disregard  of  moral  precepts  and  proprieties,  they  un 
dressed  her,  pushed  her  forward,  still  flushing  and  dis 
hevelled,  at  first  with  a  shame-faced  reluctance,  gradually 


310  THE  MASK 

developing  into  a  flaunting  forwardness  .  .  .  For  a 
moment  he  gave  himself  up  riotously  to  the  vision  .... 

Surely  none  were  so  evil  as  he  in  the  whole  world. 

He  tried  not  to  think to  turn  his  thoughts 

elsewhere.  Then  she,  the  Other,  came  to  him,  pale  and 
tranquil  like  the  moonlight,  a  vision  of  his  governess 
Nadezhda  Vassilyevna,  playing  with  soothing  fingers 
through  his  hair.  Nadezhda  Vassilyevna  was  dead,  he 
knew  she  was  dead;  they  had  heard  of  her,  she  had  died 
of  consumption  among  the  revolutionaries  in  Switzer 
land;  but  she  had  not  died  for  him.  It  was  her,  not  the 
flaunting  one,  he  loved.  She  looked  at  him  with  her  old 
quiet  smile  ....  The  oval  of  her  face  was  clearly  out 
lined,  as  were  the  high  curved  eye-brows,  her  skin  was 
white,  her  blue-grey  eyes  clear,  and  there  \vas  her  quiet 
old  smile.  Then  he  saw  her  smile  change.  Something 
alien  to  them  had  suddenly  crept  into  her  eyes.  Yet  this 
something  was  familiar  to  him.  Physically  too  the  vision 
was  changing.  All  of  a  sudden  he  realized :  she  was 
metamorphosing,  merging  in  the  other.  He  could  not 
understand  how  it  happened.  The  vision  vanished. 

Half  dreaming,  he  raised  himself  up  with  a  start. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  around  the  room.  The 
vision  still  obsessed  him.  He  looked  around  at  the  sleep 
ers,  lying  supinely  and  but  thinly  or  half  covered  owing 
to  the  warmth.  Quite  near  by  slept  Dunya.  The  moon 
light  lay  a  kind  of  pale  green-white  on  her  bare  out 
stretched  arms  and  upon  her  face.  Her  loose  black  locks 
lay  carelessly  on  the  pillow  and  on  her  bosom.  The  only 
features  of  her  face  visible  were  the  strongly  marked 
dark  eyebrows  and  rather  more  faintly  the  fine  line  of 
her  mouth,  and  seeing  it  he  felt  pity  for  her,  his  favour 
ite  sister,  whom  as  yet  unconsciously  perhaps  he  loved 
more  than  any  being  on  earth.  Nevertheless,  in  the 
ghostly  glare  of  that  full  unearthly  moonlight,  the  spirit 
of  his  strange  unrest  still  upon  him,  she  did  not  seem  to 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER      311 

him  like  Dunya,  but  like  a  vision  of  feminine  beauty 
differing  only  in  texture  and  degree  from  his  earlier 
visions  of  the  night.  His  heart  beat  fast  as  thoughts 
came  to  him,  urging  and  compelling  thoughts,  lashed  on 
in  their  turn  by  a  most  fearful  curiosity. 

With  trembling  heart,  fearful  of  discovery,  he  crept 
over  to  where  she  lay,  and  for  some  moments,  leaning  on 
his  elbow,  looked  into  her  face. 

"Dunya,"  he  called  in  a  low  voice,  wishing  to  make 
sure  that  she  was  asleep. 

There  was  no  answer. 

Slowly  and  lightly  he  lifted  the  cover  from  her,  and 
gazed  at  her  avidly  in  the  moonlight.  He  gazed  fascin 
ated  at  her  whiteness  and  her  outlines,  with  no  other 
desire  than  to  gaze.  He  was  trembling  all  over  and  his 
heart  beat  fearfully,  yet  he  could  not  tear  himself  away 
from  the  vision,  the  exact  nature  of  whose  attraction  he 
could  not  explain. 

Dare  he  light  a  candle,  he  thought  to  himself,  if  only 
for  one  little  moment,  the  better  to  see  than  by  the  light 
the  moon  vouchsafed  him?  Fear  of  discovery  made  him 
hesitate,  but  only  for  a  moment;  forces  stronger  than 
fear  were  at  work.  He  reached  out  for  the  candle  and 
matches  on  the  window-sill,  and  quietly  lighting  the 
candle  held  it  over  Dunya.  The  flame  cast  a  ruddy 
glare,  gave  life  to  the  vision.  The  candle  in  his  trembling 
hand  nickered,  causing  the  great  spot  of  light  to 
waver  with  a  mysterious  agitation  on  Dunya's  white 
body.  Presently,  he  saw  her  face  stir  slightly,  and  he 
blew  out  the  candle ;  he  heard  her  sigh,  then  mutter  some 
thing;  she  shifted  her  arms,  and  her  hands  pressed  her 
bosom.  Was  she  dreaming?  ....  he  wondered.  He 
held  his  breath,  and  after  a  little  while,  seeing  that  she 
kept  still,  he  cautiously  drew  the  cover  over  her,  and 
crept  back  to  his  mattress.  Throwing  himself  down 
upon  it,  he  buried  his  head  in  the  pillow,  clutching  at  it 


312  THE  MASK 

convulsively  and  trying  to  stifle  his  sobs.  He  did  not 
know  why  he  was  sobbing.  But  it  relieved  him  to  cry. 
Afterward  he  drew  the  bed-cover  over  his  head,  and 
soon  lapsed  into  unconsciousness  .  .  . 

Douglass  was  naturally  astonished  when  Gombarov 
told  him  of  that  episode  of  John's  adolescence,  that  ex 
traordinary,  almost  clairvoyant  image  of  the  awakening 
of  sex.  And  though  he  knew  that  Gombarov,  like  most 
Russians  he  met,  was  frank,  yet  he  had  not  expected 
such  an  intimate  revelation.  Douglass  was  the  first  to 
break  the  short  silence  that  followed  the  recounting  of 
the  incident : 

"The  tale  you  have  told  me  might,  in  its  essence,  have 
been  taken  from  Greek  mythology.  It  might  be  made  as 
significant  as  the  classic  tale  of  Cupid  and  Psyche.  I 
should  say  it  would  be  rather  a  difficult  thing  to  treat  in 
a  modern  novel.  People  nowadays  do  not  understand 
these  things.  And  what  they  do  not  understand  annoys 
them,  if  it  doesn't  actually  shock  them." 

"I  for  one,"  said  Gombarov,  "cannot  see  how  the  nor 
mal  excesses  of  human  minds  can  be  controlled  except  by 
normal  living.  Normal  mental  excesses  come  from  ab 
normal  physical  suppressions.  Leading  narrow  sup 
pressed  lives,  men  quarrel  with  the  heedless  prodigality 
of  nature.  Life  is  wine,  not  vinegar.  After  all,  John's 
thought  as  a  boy,  and  all  his  misery,  rose  not  from  mor 
bidity,  but  from  excess  of  normality.  Because  this 
naturalness  was  suppressed  by  a  hard,  joyless,  altogether 
unreasonable  civilization,  to  which,  by  reason  of  his 
early  bringing  up  in  the  Russian  woods,  he  had  not 
become  accustomed,  his  spirit  revolted.  There  was  no 
relief,  no  outlet  for  his  natural  life.  Something  deep 
within  him  sought  egress,  and  that  was  the  very  essence 
of  life.  If  I  ever  write  a  novel,  it  won't  deal  with  photo 
graphic  likenesses  of  men,  but  with  men's  innermost 


TWO  YEARS  KILLED  IN  ONE  CHAPTER       313 

feelings  and  thoughts.  Men  and  women  shall  stand 
exposed  to  the  world  as  they  are  to  themselves.  They 
shall  parade  before  the  reader's  eyes  as  thoughts  incar 
nate,  in  all  their  true  relation  to  one  another.  I  would 
try  to  present  their  real  being,  their  very  essence,  the 
texture  of  their  thoughts.  I  would  try  to  reduce  their 
seeming  complexity  to  unutterable  simplicity.  For  men 
at  bottom  are  simple  and  have  common  desires.  Un 
fortunately  most  of  our  novelists  fall  in  with  our  civili 
zation  and,  if  anything,  only  help  to  entangle  our  lives 
into  ugly  knots,  instead  of  untying  them.  Let  us  burrow 
our  way  out  of  our  miserable  darkness  and  not  further 
into  it." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HOW  A  TREE  HELPED  TO  MAKE  A  TURNING  POINT  IN 
THE  GOMBAROVS'  LIVES 

WITH  Gombarova  at  home  again,  after  giving  birth  to 
Margaret — and  Margaret  was  an  extra  mouth  to  feed,  if 
as  yet  a  little  one — the  Gombarovs  found  it  hard  to  get 
along.  It  was  true  that  Raya  and  Dunya,  paid  by  piece 
work,  had  slowly  increased  their  earnings;  John  also 
had  had  two  promotions,  one  from  bobbin  boy  to  piecer 
on  "spinning-mule,"  the  other  to  runner  of  "spinning- 
mule,"  a  formidable  device  of  some  four  or  five  hundred 
spindles  which  moved  in  and  out  on  wheels  the  whole 
length  of  the  long  room  and  transformed  raw  wool  or 
cotton  into  thread.  By  the  first  promotion  he  got  a 
raise  of  fifty  cents;  by  the  second,  which  was  a  sort  of 
coming  of  age,  for  it  gave  him  a  man's  job,  he  got 
another  fifty  cents;  he  was  now  getting  four  dollars  a 
week  for  work  at  which  a  man  usually  got  from  eight  to 
ten  dollars  a  week. 

"  'Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me',  is  the  favour 
ite  writing  over  the  door  of  modern  industry,"  said  John 
Gombarov,  in  telling  of  the  experience  many  years  after 
ward. 

What  was  to  be  done?  To  make  matters  worse,  the 
employes  of  the  Shoddy  Mills  were  under  compulsion 
to  buy  their  food,  coal,  kindling  and  other  household 
supplies  from  the  company  stores,  a  "vicious  circle"  de- 


TURNING  POINT  IN  GOMBAROV'S  LIVES      315 

vice,  characteristic  of  our  civilization,  invented  to  divert 
the  moneys  received  by  workers  to  their  fountain-head. 

Many  of  the  employes,  especially  Russians,  would  now 
and  then  save  a  few  pennies  by  going  to  the  neighbouring 
woods  at  dusk  to  gather  kindling;  after  a  storm  there 
was  some  chance  of  picking  up  a  broken  young  tree,  or 
the  severed  limb  of  an  old  one.  Old  Gombarov  was  very 
fond  of  going  out  on  these  expeditions,  and  it  was  his 
habit  to  fetch  the  most  formidable  victim  he  could  find, 
calling  if  need  be  upon  John's  help.  He  grew  more  and 
more  ambitious  in  this  respect — he  had  never  been  fond 
of  doing  things  by  halves — until  one  day  he  achieved  the 
climax  with  most  startling  consequences. 

Owing  to  low  supplies  of  raw  wool,  John  was  idle  that 
day.  It  occurred  to  old  Gombarov  that  he  might  use 
this  fact  to  advantage. 

"Let's  go  and  get  some  wood,"  he  said  to  John. 

John,  who  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  himself, 
agreed  willingly. 

Taking  a  large  saw  and  an  axe,  they  went  out.  It 
was  a  grey  drizzly  day.  The  air  was  warm,  and  there 
was  a  hint  of  thunder.  No  one  was  about.  The  popu 
lation  was  mostly  at  work  in  the  mills. 

They  walked  a  little  while  along  the  narrow  path,  the 
fallen  leaves  crunching  under  their  feet.  Then  Gom 
barov  suddenly  swerved  aside,  plunged  in  among  the 
bushes,  John  following.  Gombarov  walked  on  as  if 
towards  a  fixed  spot.  Emerging  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bushes,  he  walked  a  little  way  farther,  then  quite  sud 
denly  stopped.  They  stood  before  a  huge  tree,  an  old 
poplar;  John  thought  it  was  the  biggest  tree  in  the 
wood. 

"You  are  not  going  to  cut  that  tree  down,  are  you?" 
asked  John,  in  amazement. 

"Why  not?"  asked  his  stepfather.  "Men  don't  fish 
for  minnows  when  they  can  catch  cod." 


3i6  THE  MASK 

To  John  there  appeared  to  be  something  appalling  in 
the  idea  of  cutting  this  tree  down.  It  was  so  tall  and 
old  and  huge,  he  and  his  stepfather  were  so  little.  He 
felt  unwilling  and  afraid,  but  fascinated  by  the  thought 
as  well.  Apart  from  this,  he  thought :  this  wood  prob 
ably  belonged  to  someone — might  they  not  get  into 
trouble  for  cutting  such  a  tree  down?  Arid  he  grew 
horribly  afraid  at  the  thought,  even  more  than  at  the 
other. 

His  stepfather,  as  if  he  had  guessed  his  thoughts, 
merely  said : 

"Young  trees  grow  into  old  trees,  it  is  better  to  bring 
this  old  fellow  down  than  a  lot  of  young  ones.  It  will 
save  us  a  lot  of  trouble.  This  chap  ought  to  last  us 
several  months." 

They  took  no  heed  of  the  growing  drizzle,  threw  their 
coats  off,  and  got  to  work.  They  were  soon  perspiring, 
and  took  short  rests.  The  little  saw-dust  heap  grew  and 
grew.  Yet  there  still  was  much  left  to  saw.  It  was 
hard  to  tell  afterwards  how  long  it  took  them  to  do  the 
job,  but  it  surely  seemed  incredibly  long. 

When  they  came  near  the  end,  John  thought :  Now 
the  tree  will  surely  fall.  So  frail  appeared  the  hold  it 
had  on  the  stump,  and  on  dear  life.  After  another  five 
minutes,  John  thought:  another  moment  and  it  would 
fall.  And  he  began  to  prepare  to  run,  not  knowing 
which  way  it  would  fall.  But  it  still  lived  on.  John's 
heart  trembled  with  fear  and  expectancy.  The  tree  tilted 
just  slightly;  at  the  place  where  the  saw  sundered  it  in 
two,  the  parting  grew  barely  wider.  There  was  a  slight 
crackle,  a  slight  groan,  as  the  saw  cut  into  the  last 
sinews,  and  still  the  tree  stood,  towered  in  its  aged  pride. 
At  last  there  came  the  last  crackle,  followed  by  a  pro 
longed  groan;  the  tree  shook,  trembled,  almost  reeled, 
like  a  powerful  drunken  man  wishing  to  right  himself, 
to  prevent  himself  from  falling;  at  least  it  appeared  so  to 


vjrwL>vw       o      _ 


John,  who,  together  with  his  stepfather,  began  to  make  a 
retreat,  watching  at  the  same  time  the  slow  reluctant 
fall  of  the  giant;  there  was  a  crash,  lasting  for  some 
moments,  as  of  thunder;  so  loud  it  was,  that  John  felt 
glad  that  there  was  rain;  if  anyone  heard  it,  they  would 
surely  think  it  was  thunder. 

Stepfather  Gombarov  stood  eyeing  his  work  with 
great  satisfaction,  untroubled  by  any  of  the  qualms 
which  assailed  John. 

For  the  time  being  he  contented  himself  by  lopping  off 
a  few  of  the  smaller  branches,  to  take  home  with  them. 
But  thereafter,  he  would  go  out  with  John  once  a  week, 
and  they  would  bring  back  a  log  with  them,  sometimes 
two,  which  they  would  drop  in  the  little  narrow  space 
between  their  cottage  and  the  next. 

Unluckily  for  the  Gombarovs,  the  Company  one  day 
sent  its  German  carpenter,  a  Karl  Schwartz,  to  make 
some  long-asked-for  repairs,  and  it  was  while  examining 
the  exterior  of  the  house  that  he  stumbled  upon  a  couple 
of  logs  in  that  narrow  alley.  When  no  one  was  looking 
he  took  a  measure  of  them,  and  with  an  eye  to  finding 
favour  with  his  employers  went  to  the  woods  to  investi 
gate.  He  beheld  the  remnant  of  the  fallen  tree  with 
hardly  less  satisfaction  than  Gombarov  some  weeks  be 
fore,  if  of  a  different  nature.  There  was  something  of 
the  stage  villain  about  Schwartz. 

Two  days  later,  while  at  work  in  the  mill,  Raya,  Dunya 
and  John  received  notice  that  their  services  would  no 
longer  be  required  at  the  end  of  the  week. 

They  were  frightened  and  mystified.  They  did  not 
know  why  they  were  being  discharged. 

But  the  mystery  became  clear,  when  young  Fritz 
Schwartz,  a  chip  of  the  old  block,  approached  John  and 
berated  him  for  being  the  son  of  a  tree  thief,  if  not  an 


0  ri 

accomplice.  Then  John  understood  all  at  once  what  had 
happened. 

"Dey  vas  going  at  foist  to  haf  your  fadder  pinched, 
but  dey  haf  changed  deir  minds.  You're  lucky,  my 
poy!"  was  the  further  information  vouchsafed  by  Fritz. 

John  was  dumbfounded.  So  they  were  going  to  arrest 
his  stepfather,  but  changed  their  minds !  He  understood 
the  aspersion :  they  were  criminals,  but  they  were  also 
poor.  There  was  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  them.  It 
wasn't  worth  the  trouble  to  arrest  Gombarov. 

That  evening  John  and  Fritz  fought  outside  the  mill, 
watched  by  a  delighted  crowd,  and  neither  the  blood 
flowing  from  his  cut  cheek,  nor  even  the  blood  flowing 
freely  from  Fritz's  nose,  aroused  fear  or  pity  in  him,  so 
filled  was  he  with  weariness  of  life  and  reckless  despair. 
But  Dunya  had  somehow  got  wind  of  the  affair;  it  was 
she  who  cut  her  way  boldly  through  the  hostile  crowd, 
separated  the  combatants,  and  led  John  away  home  with 
her,  in  the  face  of  John's  own  objections  and  the  hoots 
of  the  crowd,  robbed  of  its  favourite  spectacle. 

What  sort  of  evening  did  the  Gombarovs  spend,  how 
did  they  feel,  what  were  their  thoughts?  Did  they  have 
rice  soup  for  supper,  or  something  else?  Strangely 
enough,  John  Gombarov,  in  later  years,  remembered 
nothing  of  what  happened  that  evening,  nor  whether 
they  had  rice  soup  or  something  else.  He  had  a  dim 
recollection  of  dead  silence  . 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  GOMBAROVS  MIGRATE  FROM  THEIR  HOUSE  ON  A  HILL 
TO  A   CUL-DE-SAC   IN  TOWN 

A  WEEK  later,  Semyon  Gombarov,  gathering  up  his 
goods  and  family,  moved  into  town  again.  Altogether 
they  numbered  nine.  There  were  Gombarov  and  his 
wife;  then  there  were  Raya,  Dunya  and  John  by  Gom- 
barova's  first  husband;  and  Gombarov's  own  children: 
Katya  and  Absalom,  and  Sonya,  and  baby  Margaret,  in 
the  order  of  their  birth. 

Friendless  and  cut  off  from  their  own  kin,  they  moved 
like  a  small  primitive  tribe,  patriarchal  in  character; 
except  for  their  dependence  a  state  in  themselves. 

The  heads  of  cattle,  customary  to  such  migrative  nar 
ratives,  are  out  of  question  here.  The  Gombarovs  had 
none.  As  for  the  seventy-five  heads  of  fowl,  bred  by 
Gombarov,  he  sold  them,  leaving  an  odd  fat  one  over 
to  make  their  last  dinner  in  the  old  house.  Their  fortune 
in  money,  saved  for  just  such  an  emergency,  consisted 
of  fifty  dollars,  barely  enough  to  give  one  a  chance  to 
look  around. 

They  moved  into  a  poorer  section  of  the  town,  and 
began  their  "new  life"  in  a  small  two-story  house,  in  a 
cul-de-sac. 

Much  befell  them  there,  in  that  cul-de-sac. 

Many  years  afterward,  sitting  in  a  London  cafe, 
among  friends,  John  Gombarov  bethought  himself  of 

319 


320  I  titL  MAbK  •— »^MM 

that  little  cul-de-sac  in  the  City  of  Brotherly  Love.    They 
were  discussing  cul-de-sacs. 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  live  in  a  cul-de-sac"  said  Ninette, 
a  sprightly  French  girl,  showing  her  pretty  teeth.  "You 
can't  look  out  of  the  window  and  see  the  world,  see 
people  pass  by." 

"The  whole  universe  is  a  cul-de-sac"  said,  in  his  deep, 
solemn  bass  voice,  Julius  Strogovsky,  a  Russian  who  had 
studied  philosophy  for  many  years  in  a  German  uni 
versity. 

"And  what  do  you  think  about  it?"  asked  Gombarov, 
turning  to  Douglass. 

"A  cul-de-sac  is  a  blind  alley,  and  that's  all  there's  to 
it,"  replied  Douglass  gruffly,  for  like  level-headed  Scots 
men,  he  had  a  contempt  for  German  philosophy. 

John  Gombarov  atone  refrained  from  giving  his  opin 
ion.  He  lost  himself  in  the  thought  of  the  little  cul-de- 
sac  he  knew  so  well  in  the  City  of  Brotherly  Love.  At 
the  same  time  a  vision  rose  in  his  mind  of  a  little  cove 
in  the  north  of  Devon,  where  at  high  tide  the  oncoming 
waves  beat  their  arms  desperately,  retiring  at  short 
whiles,  only  to  return  in  new  fierce  onslaughts  against 
that  wall  of  rock. 

He  was  thinking:  he  would  like  some  day  to  write  a 
large  volume  about  that  little  cul-de-sac,  God  giving  him 
strength. 


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